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    Sweet Home, Saturday Night: Poems
    Sweet Home, Saturday Night: Poems
    Sweet Home, Saturday Night: Poems
    Ebook95 pages43 minutes

    Sweet Home, Saturday Night: Poems

    By David Baker

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    About this ebook

    "This music of Place, with all its varied and subtle emotional range, is what this book so marvelously captures. . . ." --Linda Pastan
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherUniversity of Arkansas Press
    Release dateJul 1, 1991
    ISBN9781610754101
    Sweet Home, Saturday Night: Poems
    Author

    David Baker

    David Baker has published widely in the field of Library and Information Studies, with 19 monographs and over 100 articles to his credit. He has spoken worldwide at numerous conferences and led workshops and seminars. His other key professional interest and expertise has been in the field of human resources, where he has also been active in major national projects. He has held senior positions at several institutions, including as Principal and Chief Executive of Plymouth Marjon University, and Emeritus Professor of Strategic Information Management. He has also been Deputy Chair of the Joint Information Systems Committee (Jisc). Until recently he was a member of the Board of Governors of the Universities of Northampton and South Wales. He is Chair of the Board of the Institute of Contemporary Music Performance. He is a leader in the field of library and information science.

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      Book preview

      Sweet Home, Saturday Night - David Baker

      I. Drive Away Sorrow

      Lay my head on the railroad line,

      Train come along, pacify my mind.

      NOVEMBER: THE END OF MYTH

      We parked beneath that poor, bending tree.

      It was our mistake, all along.

      We curled in our friends’ mild cabin

      cupping the mulled wine, leaning

      to taste pears touched

      in cinnamon, swaying there content

      while the split wood wept and wiled away in its own smoke.

      And sometime in those meaningful hours, we

      who have never found a use for the thing

      except to mismanage its name,

      as is our bitter nature, did not hear

      the hedge apple at last

      let go. It left

      a little footprint on our hood.

      It rolled beneath the less burdened tree, in that darkness—

      not a child’s forsaken ball, not the body

      of a green, malignant thought, neither omen nor even

      punishment for our evening’s joy,

      though we called it so.

      It was a hedge apple, only. It was nothing

      we would ever hope to hold, in love or burning thirst,

      to our parting lips—we

      who mistake such things for signs

      and for our sustenance,

      we who’ve simply stayed too long.

      STARLIGHT

      Tonight I skate on adult ankles across the blue pond

      sifted with snow, back and forth across ice

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