Issue 34: Annie Baker

blast furnace

see how that building there was nearly built?

like eyes without a face, blue stairs

that go nowhere and don’t exist

how will we cite your own near misses?

                                                                                blast furnace, heart of the world!

an early, greenish morning for the steeplejack 

we lit the fire underneath his scaffold, wished

him health, wealth, great happiness

walking briskly into light and warmth

                                                                               and tight, exacting beauties

clover to the man up high and roundabout all clover

clover to the up-high man who takes the heart

you’ll like this one

it’s based on something someone didn’t

mean to say to me

what’s wrong with you people that you can’t       surmise?

there’s a piece of paper somewhere 

which says we are related

I’d like to see it

I always like the character you’re supposed

to like, I’m nice like that, and the actor, as he passes the

camera, mutters       excuse me

My sloppy corps

Oh, my sloppy corps. Has no one

told you yet that dance insists on

justice? How might I modify rapture

for the needs of the many? How might

I make my black assertions in a way

that you will understand

Loud complaints made in the dark:

nothing to me

often I’ll let the treadmill carry me all the way to the end

before I feel I should do something about it

And I won’t allow a book to make me 

do things that a clown might

therein’s the big black error

and There, another fault

Seldom have there been so many

arms on so few dancers oh oh

double bow

Still, there were people to be met, the deep end not yet reached. Eventually it was September and it was September again and where were my children? Archaic company surrounds, neighbours keen, I happen to have stuck it out so far

And when I went to bed I asked my questions. When the questions were all answered I no longer went to bed. Open the months as I go, find nothing. Absence was predated, long anticipated, sleeps fall heavier

On the wanted, a blessing, a favoured pattern in everything: The Lord preserves the simple. These things come slow or not at all (the pattern details stillness)

The old astrakhan worn across the shoulders leaves a burnished, bronzing stain. Now there pools an oil under the skin and a bloom of little curls. Hold on while I bring myself to shear

poorly hung

the herald’s portrait

my friend Richard did it
blame him for my

inconstancies, my weak

chin, irregular habits

there’s something to be

said for grateful

men, and besides, I’ve always

fared better in close-up

now watch me attempt

the new mess

watch me throw myself

into the path of the

oncoming tricycle:

so there!

Annie Baker is a poet and mental health worker who lives in Glasgow. She is currently studying for an MLitt at The University of Glasgow. Her work has previously appeared in And Other Poems.

Copyright © 2025 by Annie Baker, all rights reserved. This text may be used and shared in accordance with the fair-use provisions of Copyright law. Archiving, redistribution, or republication of this text on other terms, in any medium, requires the notification of the journal and consent of the author.