A poem for my friend and colleague Tony Baker, who passed away just before Christmas.
Tony Baker should be here by now
Something has interrupted his walk to work
He has most likely become enchanted
By an unusual conglomeration of clouds
Or a pleasing juxtaposition of traffic lights and trees
Or a particularly shiny pebble
I receive a text. He will be here at 10.17 precisely.
I find this unlikely
Tony Baker is at the front of the stage
His arms a kaleidoscope, his face ecstatic wonder
The band behind him are playing a song but that’s just a sideshow
To this whirlwind at the front, in his suit, the Tasmanian devil
An impressionist painting, all swirls and shapes
I play guitar, standing in his mad sprawling shadow
I wonder if he’ll start singing in the right place
I find it unlikely
Tony Baker is interviewing me
Or at least he should be - he is not here yet
I am waiting in a room, in a suit, rehearsing my facts about the history of cinema
A door opens and he swings in, loping sideways through the doorframe
He looks surprised and delighted to see me,
He’s either forgotten I was coming or he’s just surprised and delighted about everything
He interviews me. It goes thus:
“Can you start on Wednesday?”
I nod.
He is thrilled. He leaves.
I sit for a second, full of unused thoughts about cinematography and the Hollywood studio system
He bursts back in for a second. He’s thought of another question.
“Can you teach?”
I nod. I can.
“Bonus!”
The whirlwind departs.
I wonder if he makes more sense once you know him
I find it unlikely
Tony Baker moves through the office like time lapse photography
A series of images caught in light,
Staccato moments, too fast and strange to capture
Like a young boy in an older man’s frame,
Startled and excited at the length of his gangly limbs
Or an old man revisiting his youth,
Enjoying the warmth and the joy and knowing that
The things around are there to be seen, and enjoyed,
and looked at, and loved
Tony Baker should be here by now
Paint fades
Songs end,
Buildings are torn down
Cups of hot water get cold
Sometimes memories drift apart
Maybe these will
I find it unlikely
