A companion volume to Celestial Migrations In The Empire, Of The Dominions Unleavened, published January 4, 2018.  102 pages, $12.99

At the conjunction of the secular and the spiritual,
Of The Dominions Unleavened is a companion volume to Celestial Migrations In The Empire, published Dec. 20, 2017.

A 3rd, final companion volume will be published in Spring/Summer 2018

I’m truly proud of this memorable, and mind-expanding new work: poems which truly mark a radical departure from previous work in tone, scope, and vision.

‘the best new book of poetry in ages..’

‘if any book could make you understand, love and want poetry, this is the one’

‘this book will awaken you to yourself…’ ‘OWN this book..’

‘don’t miss this book… you will love it’


©Dean J. Baker




122 pages, $14.99

These poems truly mark a radical departure from previous work in tone, scope, and vision. I’m truly proud of this work.

Being a passionate reader this book is what I’d hope to find to satisfy my need for historical depth, an answering quality to contemporary issues, and the innovative artistry to bring it all together in an immediacy which makes something new with each poem and by the breadth of the book.

Work which satisfies, answers, constantly and consistently repays each and every reading with a refreshing understanding that surpasses the words written on the page.

add the ebook for only $1.99 if you buy the print book from Amazon –

©Dean J. Baker

home site:

some great reviews of my other books –

” The most unique set of poems I have ever read.”

“Rabelais and Hieronymus Bosch look out of dark chinks in these poems…”  ”

“Dean’s books will someday be required reading for anyone who studies literature, poetry, or, human artistry.”

“Having read Dark Earth by Dean J Baker my first reaction is WOW. This was written for me.
His poetry speaks to me deep down in my soul.”

one would be hard pressed to do better than Dean J. Baker’s Silence Louder Than A Train.’”

“I believe Dean is our poet of the future generation.”

These poems leave you amazed and breathless, and hungering for more to read.”

A bold and refreshing approach to modern poetry, one that breaks the rules when necessary and yet conforms when it suits. Highly recommended…”

Required reading for anyone wanting to learn about wit, wordplay, and good, gritty writing in general.”

from Dark Earth… ‘The Herald’

Book of Hours, f.58v, (184 x 133 mm), 15th cen...


Nothing more than abstract ornament,
explanations and discussions
keeping us to ourselves; we were
too petty for anything else. God
and Spirit, man and God again: no
insight into the common denominators.

Stupidity categorized the crews
taking over. In Canada, one was
reduced to waiting; at best,
you sent yourself notes (not poems)
hoping they would stay closed, or
fall open revealing all upon arrival.

You are lost either way. Death
enters your life: a troubadour
strolling through the provincial town.
Each gesture of government singing
the unwanted guest to bed, who is
finishing the last bite of food.

One brought no plans for conversation,
issuing invitations in the dark
he slips from his clothes. The livery
stark amusement, leaving only the arc
of a streetlamp which constellates:
the hard vistas of distant expectation.

©Dean Baker

available in DARK EARTH, 142 pages, $15.99

– title from my first book The Herald, poem first published in Jewish Dialog


Enhanced by Zemanta





Everywhere I Go – John Newlove











What are people talking about. Everywhere I go they whisper.

They stick their eyes at me, right at the base of the breastbone,
when I’m not looking.

The breastbone seems flat, pointed like a dagger to the top
of my stomach.

O, my stomach, my stomach… when the knife rips you open
it will find coffee and four strips of bacon, pieces of chewed
beard and a handwritten note saying I have left town forever

©John Newlove
– excerpt from his brilliant work, Lies, jnewlovelies1972 and from A Long Continual Argument, The Selected Poems of John Newlove

John was a friend of mine – yet I had only said hello back him when I heard him read this live one time at York University. I’d been searching for the room in which the reading was to be held, and came around a corner to come face-to-face with him, and Joe Rosenblatt.

The mothership:

©Dean J. Baker

Review of DARK EARTH by Dean J. Baker

Posted by Craig Hickman in Book Reviews, poetry

“I keep walking, making calls which few recognize, eventually sure that one day when I have passed that way, suddenly a porch light will shine in the evening and another timelessness reign.”

Dark Earth, Dean J. Baker

Been reading Dean J. Baker’s latest offering of poems of late, Dark Earth. Of course Dean is an author, composer, and performer who was born in Toronto, Canada, to a Ukrainian/Polish father and an Irish/Scottish mother. Attended the University of Guelph, and later won book awards from them, along with several unsolicited Ontario Arts Council awards, best poems published in a year in literary journals, and The T.S. Eliot Society of Miami’s Calendar Poet award. He has several other works out: Baker’s Bad Boys, Silence Louder Than A Train, The Mythologies Of Love, and The Lost Neighborhood each of which can also be found on his page.

What struck me intensely about Dean’s poetry is this sense of earthiness and despair tinged with a dark humor that I so love. An ongoing walk through these dark times is an underlying expectation, an almost uncanny movement toward hope; yet, not hope itself, rather it’s a sort of orientation to the future or forward looking gaze that can almost see between barbed wired clouds on the darkest horizon something strange almost shining through only to be sealed off immediately by the Reality Police who trap us in this bleak corner of the universe. Now by this I don’t mean that Dean is some kind of blipping optimist, no he’s a pessimist or realist like most of us. No that would make things a little to easy and rosy, and Dean is more of a bleak and transgressive churning below the muddy waters. He lives down where the alligators and moccasins move in those black ponds, waiting, harboring nothing but deadly thoughts. Dean’s world is to poetry what David Goodis in Street of No Return is to noir. In that bleak book the main character loses the girl, kills the villain, returns to skid row with a bottle under his arm for the boys in the cold wet sunless streets, where life is nothing but this hollow gesture, a desperateness toward the last dark weave of things: where losers sit in some dark alley passing the bottle around, and nothing could touch them nothing at all.

But then again what does touch us is Dean’s poetry, and it touches us hard and quick like some dark message out of hell; but this is no metaphysical charade – it is our hell, our lives in this god forsaken universe where the thought of salvation isn’t some dream of transcendence, but is rather a movement toward another order of indifference, another and hopeful purgatory across some bleak landscape beyond the lies and deceit of this one.

Do you not see how
they drive:
to meet the grinning, opened mouth.

In Dean’s Widows he challenges our sense of propriety, brings us two death’s: the death of child, and the death of something else. Even the use of the plural – Widows, as if one may suspect some murderous collusion amongst “black widows”; or, rather the natural order of some dip into Shakespeare’s widowed “witches” from Macbeth; or, more likely just three old mean women out of some southern gothic world who, as the interlocutor tells us – as if it were some dark and sinister story, to be hushed up in polite society – a memory of another child: “the unlovely child you always knew too much about”. And, the interlocutor continues with a double refrain, one that tells us these dark widows are “carrying themselves” and “carrying themselves / with taunts of Spring”. The interlocutor will not say what cannot be said, what it is that these widows have done, or what secrets they hold to their black hearts. But he knows, and for him there is a bittersweet revenge in knowing that what they are moving toward as “they drive” is a meeting with that “grinning, opened mouth” – a death at once comical and grotesque that will undo these murderous widows and their secrets in ways beyond telling.

This is the key to Dean’s art, the subtle narration of certain moments that are never revealed in the full natural disclosure of facts, but are rather revealed more subtly in the voicing of certain affective relations between memory and mind in this ongoing inquisition with the sordidness of our unlived lives. It’s as if in each poem we are seeing slices of a pain, a snapshot of horrors, a visitation of certain indelible blood-lettings that continue to keep the wound of life open to the world. For isn’t that truly all that remains? How many of your memories are of joy? Oh I don’t mean the picture memories you can snap out, I mean the affective memories that stick in the crawl of your thick mind like a bad taste in the mouth. How many?

Dean is a true comic poet as well, full of those sly interventions and evasions, slights of self, incriminations and elisions: “It is you, who have ruined / your life, / with the comparisons … elegies outworn: / embarrassing”. And, even the muse is a fickle mistress a tormentor “the muse still torments me every now and then”, and yet she’s a comical waif as well:

She thinks a psychiatrist / may do the trick: forgetting / she had a hand in the mess.

What I admire is Dean’s pulling out all the stops, no sublime romanticist here; no, instead he’s taken notes from the underbelly of those masters of the macabre and grotesque. All those little oddball peculiarities of the absurd, bizarre, macabre, depraved, degenerate, perverse that are the hallmark of the best of that dark haunting literature, both humorous and earthy, grotesque – can be found here. As Philip Thomson tells us of the grotesque in literature and visual culture: he calls it ‘the unresolved clash of incompatibles in work and response’ and, he continues, ‘it is significant that this clash is paralleled by the ambivalent nature of the abnormal as present in the grotesque’. I like to go back to Baudelaire who perfected this mode after his careful perusal and translations of that master, Edgar Allen Poe. For Baudelaire it was to know that one was dammed in this life from the beginning; but it wasn’t a religious knowledge, no it was a secular knowing that this world, not some future abode of despair already harbored enough hate and crime to fill ten thousands hells. Maybe this is why even Sartre would seek in Baudelaire a brother of that darker existential pain that is existence with others, and go on to see “hell is other people”.

One of my favorites of this mode from Dean’s work, and the last one I’ll quote (I want you to cherish a first reading of the rest for yourself) is “Queen St. East”

The jaw slacks, with the weight
of the body’s loss,
to an inexorable acknowledgement

The brain is unfettered
in its jug; spilling over
with the nostalgia of alcohol

Flat on their backs, near Moss
Park, curled fetus-like, the
inhabitants whirl in a static frenzy of

Enfeeblement, any amusement here
sublingual: the posthumous twitching
of cynics en masse

That, my friends, in one succinct movement is the Grotesque Sublime: “the posthumous twitching / of cynics en masse”. It is also the dark knowing of a grotesque humor named “Dean J. Baker”. Rabelais and Hieronymus Bosch look out of dark chinks in these poems… instead of Emerson’s “Whim” above Dean’s lintel we might assume “Melancholy” resides here… that dark brooding that laughs below, and rises through the bones to jerk you awake from your too lazy sleep of existence.

Please visit Dean J. Baker’s site:
and his poetry can be found: and

1. Edwards, Justin; Graulund, Rune (2013-05-29). Grotesque (The New Critical Idiom) (p. 3). Taylor and Francis. Kindle Edition.

now posting here –

Dark Earth, is available here –> and

from review quotes of Dark Earth: “Dean is a true comic poet as well, full of those sly interventions and evasions, slights of self, incriminations and elisions.. He’s the kind of poet that gets under your skin and stays there like a song in some dark noir alley that sings to you of love and death suckled on good old home grown truth.”

Past Tobermory… from BLOOD UPON THE MOON










Past Tobermory, away from the eels laid out
on the cement canal surfaces of Bobcaygeon,
the road rose higher towards Huntsville, beyond
rows of vacationers almost awake to new days
of the different taste of Pure Spring Ginger Ale,
my uncle driving towards Moon River, fishing rods
packed in the back of the Volkswagen Beetle

A Saturday morning escape from the street of
the Newfies next door and their evening fights
between a stump of husband and wife, sad Godwins –
the week before we, the neighborhood kids watched
a kitten sit behind a car’s wheel, looked away
then saw Harvey G. crying to his father, who replied
what do you want me to do now, throw it away,

Snickering at his predicament, past tears that he was
that kitten, squashed flat and bloodless; his beer-
bellied father the brute car and forces beyond any
dominion where we had no ideas, mere observers
grateful my dog had chased a car, run under it, come
out the other side, barking and laughing at any concern
over the illusion of empty costumes requiring air

Like the party of about-to-be adults staring from
the front steps, unaware of what they’d generate;
cousin Jane in California, little Timmy stuck in an attic
staring down Dawes Road, his caretakers genteel as his
lightning white hair might speak, and Dougie, white
under his feet but that’s all, hiding from the occasional
thunderings of a mother entertaining guests with broken

Hilarity degenerating into shouts, while next to Godwins,
the superior Hunts took Protestant guilt and apply it
to all in their own idea of exemption, finally stuck in
their iceberg of retreat and doubt; unable to see any fish
caught on any line beyond the spider web, merely flies
surfacing on garbage and incipient gout striking soon
in the small shanty of their museum living room, without

Me now stepping across the plained rocks of a thousand
year collapse above Moon River, a sudden rattle and hush
coming from a bush, velvet crust of snake and other warnings
as the Northern Pike with their knives out like teeth, risking
a bite or more, loss of small limb to gather in
the superior taste of fresh caught fish gone stiff, such
a club we might whiff against a bully’s skin and head

As off side my uncle fished, and I caught the sight of landscape
no longer soft as a picture, but harsh and hard as rock
or bite, requiring worm and string, kite of human survey
looking down and in upon the same visions holding sway
within those pioneers eyes and existing still, needing no ideas
of forgiveness nor of being tamed: the jigsaw sky of clouds
and blue atmosphere ready to claim its people if they consent

©Dean J. Baker

-excerpt from BLOOD UPON THE MOON, 132 pages, $15.99


Review of DARK EARTH