conwaybaker
conwaybaker
Conway Baker
I write and post poetry, short stories and somewhat longer stories. I dabble in philosophy, but i suppose any and everyone already does that.
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conwaybaker · 7 days ago
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The Chance of Charted Stars
...stars
spanning so far
to the edge of the galaxy
it makes me wonder
how absurdly lucky i must be
that i ended up under
a sky so overwhelmingly pretty
and of all the places in space
this little quiet spot is where i was placed
it’s true, i was gifted a perfect nighttime view
but what saintly thing did i do
to be owed the resplendent fortune
that the very same sight was gifted to you too
shown to us in the cold, chittering our teeth
lighting up the sky, as the world falls asleep
possibly for the both of us, to join and huddle beneath
a secret, between two people, for the both of us to keep
laying so close, we can hear
each other’s hearts gently beat
stay, for however many years
and chart every single star with me
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conwaybaker · 25 days ago
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If there’s no definite or absolute reason for something to exist, is it not only rational, but logical to assume it exists purely for the sake of itself? For the sake of something prettier than a purpose?
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conwaybaker · 25 days ago
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plucking at the tendon beneath the skin of my wrist
like the string of a bass guitar
strumming the muscle twine and feeling it resist
reverberating to the beat of my beating heart
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conwaybaker · 27 days ago
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If i were born a soul with silver tongue
if i were born a soul with silver tongue
if even the gods i could persuade
in my folly, i’d barter and trade
all and every single one
of these stars high above my head
to have you here, by my side
gazing at an empty sky
instead
staring at a lint littered sable sweater
to which celestial needles above
are symphonically sewing
having made it spotless, i’d have made it much better
yet to no loss, as if you were here with me, my love
brighter than ever before, the night sky would be glowing
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conwaybaker · 28 days ago
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lines composed in Pafica
the lynching of lightning bugs has never been so lovely,
serendipitous
repetitious
are the voices
the noises
that harmonise
beneath these tungsten fireflies
- Conway Baker
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conwaybaker · a month ago
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We sometimes encounter people, even perfect strangers, who begin to interest us at first sight, somehow suddenly, all at once, before a word has been spoken
- Fyodor Dostoevsky, Crime and Punishment
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conwaybaker · a month ago
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- Friedrich Nietzsche, upon his theory of Amor Fati: “The love of Fate”
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conwaybaker · a month ago
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To my poets.
The fire was splendid. It blazed and shined before our eyes, giggling and wiggling in the air, innocently making us laugh.
We all sat under the moonlight, sharing a silent moment of peace around a campfire.
I, though, selfishly wished it would get wider and bigger, until everything burnt down to ashes, until every spark turned into a step through the suffocating reality that we might never see each other again. I thought it would have been a reason to send letters to each other, something that would engrave our faces in our mind. I wished, as a another spark flew by, that it would burn until tomorrow, surprising us all. Again, it would have been something we would call each other for, right in the middle of the night, only to make sure that we all remembered it.
It was pretty annoying, to think that the fire would eventually quiet down, that we would feel cold, that to warm ourselves up we'll have to go our own ways, to homes we couldn't quite find in each other.
And yet, despite my overflowing wishes, the fire was still too shy, and the wind too motherly to make it big–dangerous– enough for it to bring us together again. We were already too cold, we were only battling against everything and nothing, just to stay, stay on a random roof, watching small flames smile at the world before disappearing, while delivering ourselves to endless stars, wondering if they ever looked back.
Worse that our silent tears only calmed the fire, making it a vague memory and it confused me. The fact that we were about to say goodbye, the fact that it was hard to smile, the fact no verses of poetry came to me confused me. What was missing ? It was the perfect ending, the tragedy that we all secretly seeked. We were all hopeless poets, tortured artists, lost in their art to never come back. Perhaps, despite any other thought, it was the reason we were parting ways.
As in a small attempt to snap us back to reality, one of us asked :
_"Do you think they would hear us if we screamed a little ?"
_"Depends on who you're talking about." answers another.
_"The stars, silly."
_"Obviously. Not that they would blame us."
_"I think they will." I said, " blame us I mean. They already have a lot to worry about, like falling and becoming a mere wish." I look up, enough to see a sea of shining stars, slightly pale in front of the city's light. Even if they were hard to see, they looked beautiful. "But I think they'll listen. They always do" I explain.
_"It feels pretty lonely though."
That shut us up. A little too harshly, like it reminded us of an unwelcome memory. But again, we were poets, it wasn't enough to leave us breathless.
Lonely ? Perhaps. Yet the stars are way more lonely than we will ever be. They are just the background to the beauty of the moon for so many. Maybe we were lonely for different reasons, maybe we were brought together from different places, maybe loneliness ate them whole and left a little bit of me. Perhaps, selfishly, it was why we were parting ways. But, in all the honesty we helplessly avoided, we were all mesmerized by the same forgotten beauty, and this is what made us come together in the first place.
But nobody tried to answer for a moment, all taken aback by the flames that soon turned into a blazing fire.
Do the stars really look back ? Or are they just the reflection of someone else's longing ?
_"Then we will look back as well," I finally answered in a breathless delight, "not just try to, but embrace this shared loneliness like an old friend, because it is the closest the stars can be to us" I concluded, my throat strangely tight, answering my poets' silent question.
We will, I'm sure. We will look at the same stars again, even if our hearts skip a beat while doing so, even if we were out of breath, we will look back at each other.
We will make ourselves immortal in each other's soul. Because this is what poets do, they love and die endlessly.
We know, that the only way we should die is as lovers. We die loving, we die every day as we make promises, as we trust and lose sleep. We love dearly and it kills us. We know that every letter is a tie that holds our hearts together, that hang them up in the sky. The same hearts that we would gaze at every night. The same hearts that we hope would look back, that sometimes break, turning into a shooting star. We worry that our heart may fall and turn into a wish, yet offer it to whom we love.
We know, very clearly, that every breath is a desire, too complete to be taken back. That each of our hearts are a star. That every star looks back. That our heart are yours to wish upon.
That's what poets write about. That's what poets die for. That's why we live and walk on this earth. To let our heart catch a breath or skip a beat. This is what poets are.
This is what we will always be.
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