( My other idol, besides Kipling. )
No dates with a little dash between 'em...Baxter's still around, and one of the more sought-after public speakers around: he's also, according to the New York Times,
'…probably the nation's most successful living poet'. Certainly, according to Eric Lee (who'd know...trust me on that) he's the quintessential Cowboy Poet.
That means we need to know what Cowboy Poetry is, since the genre is not widely understood. To be all too brief...Cowboy Poetry is normally written in rhyme and rhythm (not necessarily strictly metric, but close on that fence-line) and can be serious, humorous or both, usually in colloquial dialect, and is about preserving the lore, life and legends of the American West.
I'm remembering Debra Winger asking John Travolta "You a real cowboy?" and his response..."That depends on what you think a real cowboy is." It takes more than a wardrobe, a two-step and a mechanical bull, y'all...but you don't have to have ridden in a rodeo, or as a day-work wrangler.
Baxter Black was a livestock vet...the guy who kept your horses and cattle up and worth their keep, and that is one LARGE part of the life, make no mistake. He was right in the middle of it all, and when he talks, you know he knows what he's talkin' about! He lived among cowboys, a part of their way of life, and had the skills to operate in the environment. Proving his insanity, he did ride bulls in his youth, and still describes himself as 'the world's worst team-roper'.
While he now has the poet's dream...an income from his poetry and appearances that would seem to make freedom from a 'day job' possible (he commands appearance fees between $7000 and $10,000, as well as commanding the absolute respect of his fellow cowboys AND his fellow poets!) Baxter IS a cowboy, and knows the life inside out.
Baxter lives here in Arizona, in a little place called Benson...as he puts it, "between the Gila River and the Gila monster, the Mexican border and the Border Patrol and between the horse and the cow---where the action is".
According to
http://baxterblack.com He still doesn't own a television or a cell phone, and his idea of a modern convenience is Velcro chaps.Everything about Baxter is cowboy; his cartoonish mustache, his personality and his poetry. He makes a living shining a spotlight on the flaws and foibles of everyday cowboy life. He demonstrates that it is the truth in his humor that makes it funny.
So, in a nut shell (where some believe he may have evolved) there is considerably more to Baxter than just an entertainer. He is the real thing. Because, as he says, "It's hard to be what you aren't."
Find out more about him from the horse’s mouth at
http://baxterblack.com/faq.htm This is my favorite of his works, since it touches on the part of a cowboy's life that was the biggest part of my own. an edited version was read by "Cody" in the movie '8 Seconds'. You can click this link to hear me read it for ya, if you'd like to read along.
http://www.normpo.com/~Eric/legacy.mp3 It's called
LEGACY OF THE RODEO MAN
There's a hundred years of history and a hundred before that
All gathered in the thinkin' goin' on beneath his hat.
And back behind his eyeballs and pumpin' through his veins
Is the ghost of every cowboy that ever held the reins.
Every coil in his lasso's been thrown a million times
His quiet concentration's been distilled through ancient minds.
It's evolution workin' when the silver scratches hide
And a ghostly cowboy chorus fills his head and says, "Let's ride."
The famous and the rowdy, the savage and the sane
The bluebloods and the hotbloods and the corriente strain
All knew his mother's mothers or was his daddy's kin
'Til he's nearly purely cowboy, born to ride and bred to win.
He's got Buffalo Bill Cody and Goodnight's jigger boss
And all the brave blue soldiers that General Custer lost
The ghost of Pancho Villa, Sittin' Bull and Jessie James
All gathered by his campfire keepin' score and takin' names.
There's every Royal Mountie that ever got his man
And every day-work cowboy that ever made a hand
Each man that's rode before him, yup, every mother's son
Is in his corner, rootin', when he nods to make his run.
Freckles Brown might pull his bull rope, Casey Tibbs might jerk the flank,
Bill Picket might be hazin' when he starts to turn the crank.
Plus Remington and Russell lookin' down his buckhorn sight
All watchin' through the window of this cowboy's eyes tonight.
And standin' in the catch pen or in chute number nine
Is the offspring of a mountain that's come down from olden time
A volcano waitin' quiet, 'til they climb upon his back
Runblin' like the engine of a freight train on the track.
A cross between a she bear and a bad four wheel drive
With the fury of an eagle when it makes a power dive
A snake who's lost it's caution or a badger gone berserk
He's a screamin', stompin', clawin', rabid, mad dog piece o' work.
From the rollers in his nostrils to the foam upon his lips
From the hooves as hard as granite to the horns with dagger tips
From the flat black starin' shark's eye that's the mirror of his soul
Shines the challenge to each cowboy like the devil callin' roll
In the seconds that tick slowly 'til he climbs upon his back
Each rider faces down the fear that makes his mouth go slack
And cuts his guts to ribbons and gives his tongue a coat
He swallows back the panic gorge that's risin' in his throat.
The smell of hot blue copper fills the air around his head
Then a single, solid, shiver shakes away the doubt and dread
The cold flame burns within him 'til his skin's as cold as ice
And the dues he paid to get here are worth every sacrifice
All the miles spent sleepy drivin'. all the money down the drain
All the "if I's" and the "nearly's." all the bandages and pain
All the female tears left dryin', all the fever and the fight
Are just a small downpayment on the ride he makes tonight.
And his pardner in this madness that the cowboy's call a game
Is a ton of buckin' thunder bent on provin' why he came
But the cowboy never wavers he intends to do his best
And of that widow maker he expects of him no less.
There's a solemn silent moment that every rider knows
When time stops on a heartbeat like the earth itself was froze
Then all the ancient instinct fills the space between his ears
"Til the whispers of his phantoms are the only thing he hears
When you get down to the cuttin' and the leather touches hide
And there's nothin' left to think about, he nods and says, "Outside!"
Then frozen for an instant against the open gate
Is hist'ry turned to flesh and blood, a warrior incarnate.
And while they pose like statues in that flicker of an eye
There's somethin' almost sacred, you can see it if you try.
It's guts and love and glory - one mortal's chance at fame
His legacy is rodeo and cowboy is his name.
"Turn 'im out"
© Baxter Black (used by permission)
Well...that worked out nice, 'cuz while I was it introducing you to Baxter Black, he sorta told you a bit about me, too.
This is one that has always left me with a shiver...
enjoy.
RANGE FIRE
Lightning cracked across the sky like veins on the back of your hand.
It reached a fiery finger out as if in reprimand
And torched a crippled cottonwood that leaned against the sky
While grass and sagebrush hunkered down that hellish hot July.
The cottonwood exploded! And shot its flaming seeds
Like comets into kerosene, igniting all the weeds.
The air was thick as dog's breath when the fire's feet hit the ground.
It licked its pyrogenic lips and then it looked around.
The prairie lay defenseless in the pathway of the beast.
It seemed to search the further hills and pointed to the east,
Then charged! Like some blind arsonist, some heathen hell on wheels
With its felonious companion, the wind, hot on its heels.
The varmints ran like lemmings in the shadow of the flame
While high above a red tailed hawk flew circles, taking aim.
He spied a frazzled prairie dog and banked into a dive
But the stoker saw him comin' and fried 'em both alive!
It slid across the surface like a molten oil slick.
It ran down prey and predator...the quiet and the quick.
The killdeer couldn't trick it, it was cinders in a flash.
The bones of all who faced it soon lay smoking in the ash.
The antelope and cricket, the rattlesnake and bee,
The butterfly and badger, the coyote and the flea.
It was faster than the rabbit, faster than the fawn,
They danced inside the dragon's mouth like puppets...then were gone.
It offered up no quarter and burned for seven days.
A hundred thousand acres were consumed within the blaze.
Brave men came out to kill it, cutting trail after trail
But it jumped their puny firebreaks and scattered 'em like quail.
It was ugly from a distance and uglier up close
So said the men who saw the greasy belly of the ghost.
It made'm cry for mama. Melted tracks on D-8 Cats.
It sucked the sweat right off of their backs and broke their thermostats.
It was hotter than a burning brake, heavy as a train,
It was louder than the nightmare screams of Abel's brother, Cain.
It was war with nature's fury unleashed upon the land
Uncontrollable, enormous, it held the upper hand.
The men retrenched repeatedly, continuously bested
Then finally on the seventh day, like Genesis, it rested.
The black-faced fire fighters stared, unable to believe.
The watched the little wisps of smoke, mistrusting their reprieve.
They knew they hadn't beaten it. They knew beyond a doubt.
Though News Break told it different, they knew it just went out.
Must've tired of devastation, grew jaded to the fame.
Simply bored to death of holocaust and walked out of the game.
You can tell yourself...that's crazy. Fire's not a living thing.
It's only chance combustion, there's no malice in the sting.
You can go to sleep unworried, knowing man is in control,
That these little freaks of nature have no evil in their soul.
But rest assured it's out there and the powder's always primed
And it will be back, you know it...it's only biding time
'Til the range turns into kindling and the grass turns into thatch
And a fallen angel tosses out a solitary match.
© Baxter Black (used by permission)
~eric lee
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