SELECTED POETRY

by
Ronald Baatz

THE DAYS THAT FOLLOWED

The days that followed
found their expression in
the sorrow the fish in the pond
had learned from the birds in the air.

In the drifting away of the mountain,
which so many had prayed to,
like a cloud never seen again.

In children leaving the river and huddling
around a glass of water that turned green
and then gray and then into a turtle.

In the old poet, who used to compose his verses
on the steps of the library, being found dead
in his room.

Some saying he had died in his sleep;
others saying he hadn’t slept in years.

© Ronald Baatz

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IN MOSCOW

It’s thirty degrees in Moscow tonight,
thirty below.

Authorities are refusing to allow
drunks to sleep in the subways.

And so there are the deaths of many
of these drunks.

On the television I see the dead drunks
being carried away.

Snow clinging
to their coats.

© Ronald Baatz

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SILENCE TEN THOUSAND TIMES

In catholic high school, if a boy (and there were only boys)
got detention for acting up in class, more often than not
He’d be made to write the word “silence” ten thousand times.

As for myself, i never minded this punishment, it proving
to be such a comforting thing to do. I’d always take my time,
printing clearly, lining the words up very neatly. Actually

it was like a quiet chant to me, more of a religious experience
than anything that ever happened in church. I wonder what
the brothers in charge of those detentions did with all those

pages of silences.
Did they know
of their sacredness?

© Ronald Baatz

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SLEEPING WITH DOGS

For Debo

Vehemently she objects to an obscene moment
in one of my poems, and so we argue about this
for about an hour on the phone, before she starts

falling asleep among her dogs in a little southern town
two blocks from the ocean. That’s the ocean you can take
a boat across to get to Paris, a city where more people sleep

with dogs than anywhere else in the world. They eat cheese
with their dogs in bed too, then make love in cheese crumbs
while the dogs sit on the balcony to look at the lights of Paris

wet from rain.

© Ronald Baatz

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I BURY DOGS

If you need your dog buried, please, call me. I bury dogs.
I bury dogs for people who dearly love their dogs.
It is very difficult for a person to actually
take shovel in hand and dig that hole, to
lower such a loved creature into it and then
to fill that dark hole in the earth with dirt.
I come to your house and i take your dog out
to where you want it buried and i start digging.
I keep your dog wrapped in a blanket.
There is no reason for me to be looking at your dog.
I do not love it. It is only another dog to me.
Not that i don't feel for dogs. I do. I've had my share,
although i have never buried any of my own dogs.
This is a good thing since now it does not bother me
to bury a dog. I can bury a dog any day of the week,
any time of the day. Naturally i cannot do this
in winter when the ground is hard. I do not bury dogs
in the winter. I have been asked to by people who are
so distraught with sorrow that they are not thinking clearly.
Of course i have refused. I am unable to move frozen earth.
I tell people they will have to bury their own dogs in winter.
Eventually, of course, they come to their senses and decide
to keep their dogs frozen until spring when the ground loosens.
In the springtime i am busy. It is my busiest time of the year.
Flowers will be coming up and i'll be putting dogs down into
the old sad earth, as deep as i would want myself to be placed.

© Ronald Baatz

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IN HIS EYES

I dream of my father
lying on his back
in the yard of
the old river road house,
place of childhood years.
I try to rouse him
but get no response.
In his eyes i am
able to see myself
leaning over him. There’s
a gathering of dark
autumn clouds
behind me, and
it looks as though
i am wondering
whether he is
dead or not.

© Ronald Baatz

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EINSTEIN SAID

Einstein said his first wife
had the soul of a herring.

Naturally when i read this
i began to wonder what my first wife
would say my soul most resembled.

Believe me, i'd be greatly relieved if
she at least said it resembled that of
a plain old muddy-yellow kitchen canary.

I've always admired how well
this particular creature has adapted
to being forced to dwell in kitchens.

Its song is so sweet and uncomplicated,
so accepting of what has come about.

It knows how to sing the praises of everyday life,
no matter how deadening the routine.

© Ronald Baatz

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EMPTY PEWS

It is a painful and dark and lonely experience
to write at times. I used to write late at night
but after years i had to switch to a different time.
I drank too much at night and that in turn led
to shallow sleep or sleep ravaged by bad dreams.
Lately, weather permitting, i have been going
to the park to write. It is quiet there. I'll choose
a picnic bench under the pines and if i grow sleepy
i can always put my head down on my arms
to take a snooze. There is no alcohol at the park.
The birds keep me company. They never suffer
the loss of song. After many years of writing
most of the poems get stashed away
in cardboard boxes. Sometimes i wonder
what encourages me to continue. I suppose
nothing more than the need to perform
some small sacred act every day. Plus
i cannot see myself committing to anything else
at this point in my life, as the future starts
to look like a dull point broken off a pencil.
I feel like a priest in a church situated in
a mountainous area that is so difficult, so
dangerous to reach, that all the masses i say
are said to empty pews, the collection basket
never needs passing around. In fact,
now i find the basket is best put to use
for collecting tinder, for when a small fire
seems to be a cold dawn's only consolation.

© Ronald Baatz

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UNDER MY BED

there's a poem under my bed
about eating cherries

it had fallen out of a book
i was reading and slipped
out of arm's reach

and now i'm just too tired
to get the dust mop to
reach for this poem

and besides, i like knowing it's
there on these cold winter nights

a poem written in a season
much friendlier than this one

a poem with pits in it

© Ronald Baatz

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THE OLD HEART

with age the old heart
becomes more unlikely
to fall in love

after all the many loves
it might become hardened
or

it becomes so obviously lazy
and fat
like a toad sitting on a couch

left there by a
child who has been told
numberless times before

not to bring toads
into the house
so yes

that is what the old heart
is like
it has grown fat and slimy

and it doesn't move and it
should be
thrown out

the back door

© Ronald Baatz

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THE PROMISE

irises by the
garage are
blooming

a yellow
pale as
onion skins

i should cut some
and take them
to my old neighbour

who was not so old
ten years ago
when i moved here

but a
strange illness
i can never remember

the name of
has stolen every last
vestige of youth from her

one hot august afternoon
while we were standing in
the shade of her apple tree

she made me promise
never to grow old
and to bring a smile to her face

i promised i'd do my best

© Ronald Baatz

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