Bashō's Road

to the small poem and the quiet voice within

ronald baatz | mars orange

Editor’s Note: More amazing poems from the amazing Mr. Baatz, all these appearing in another one of those amazing little-small press books, MARS ORANGE (4 ¼x 5 ½”) with perfect ‘little’ artworks by Dina Bursztyn, front and back covers and scattered throughout…the kind of little book small press and little mag oldtimers respect and love because they know inside on tiny unnumbered pages lurks the real thing, real writers with real feelings and real words and inner images, caught live for the good of all in quiet little unassuming books like this, without a price or an ISBN number ( published by Open Studio, 402 main Street, Catskill, NY 12414 |  ronaldbaatz.com | openstudiocatskill.com) where the real writer lives and breathes giving away his heart once more, giving everything he has to show for himself to a select few who may (or may never) find their way to him, which he can’t control and doesn’t care since he’s done his part, got it out there, and so here I am again in love with this whole almost anonymous process of publishing…as perplexed and frustrated as ever as to where to put a little book, how to store (let alone remember) these little beauties since they sure as hell have no spine to locate on a shelf, nothing at all to call attention to themselves except the memory of poems as good as these by Baatz in MARS ORANGE which may enter and stay in a reader’s memory bank till some odd moment… a clock’s hands in prayer…lust and old age…walking like a crow… and you hear and almost see where poetry lived on the tiny page for you the first time, calling you back as an afterthought to discover once again what you thought you almost knew about living your life with little to show. –Norbert Blei

Sleep with this rose
my love
and put it
in cold water
in a dream of me

Once I thought
I was the only
shivering old man
of brooding sorrow
left

Strangers to god—
we walk like crows
we make love like fallen angels

midnight—
clock’s hands
joined in prayer

O these painful eye of mine!
old age
and lust

Tomatoes
raised with
fire and shine

The mind that is a lone bird
The mind that is a bare branch
The mind that is crying out across
a frozen pond
The mind that is a pond cracking open

3 Comments

  1. Michael Koehler

    July 8, 2012 at 11:53 pm

    Some exquisite words here. Gems indeed.

  2. Undying, Both the author and you the small hope for the
    sml writer actually touching someone lightly, chaging the world,

    Ron Baatz has set a trap and captured my gentle torture of old age,

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