Launching Dancing in Babylon

V. Press is very very delighted to announce the publication of Dancing in Babylon by Elaine Baker.

“Situated in the city of the apocalypse, and arranged as a play, this is a gentle and haunting sequence of poems. Within an anxiety-infused landscape of constant peril, Baker’s skillful narrator offers a counterbalance to the darkness of uncertainty. What ultimately triumphs here is the light, joy and beauty of what it is to love and be loved. These graceful, musical and emotionally resonant poems beautifully unfold their story of hope.” Vanessa Lampert

“These poems are startling in their emotional clarity. They capture the surreal disconnection of lockdown as well as celebrating what a joy it is to be together once more. They are filled with a quietly powerful sense of wonder that is both passionate and melancholy. From tango dancers to taxi cab drivers, they draw us into a world that is heart-breaking in its beauty.” 
Aoife Mannix 

Dancing in Babylon is very elegiac and very cathartic.

ISBN: 978-1-7394122-0-3

36 pages    

R.R.P. £6.50

A sample poem can be enjoyed below.

BUY DANCING IN BABYLON NOW using the paypal options below.

Dancing in Babylon (with p&p options)

Dancing in Babylon (with p&p for UK delivery) £8.25 GBP Dancing in Babylon (with p&p for Rest of the World delivery) £18.50 GBP

Poetry Bundle Offer

BUY Dancing in Babylon & Elaine Baker's Winter with Eva as a poetry bundle using the paypal options below. 

Elaine Baker 2-pamphlet bundle with delivery options

Elaine Baker 2-pamphlet bundle for U.K. delivery only £12.99 GBP Elaine Baker 2-pamphlet bundle for Rest of the World delivery £30.00 GBP

The cabbie (1)

He works nights, passing blue lights. Silence. Blue lights. But the streets are magic after dark.

He doesn’t need Satnav or stars. He knows Babylon’s backstreets like his daughters and sons, like their voices in the morning, their feet on the carpeted stairs.

While she cooks, nags, worries, gets them to bed, pours a drink, watches the news, he criss-crosses the city, office blocks to station forecourt to banks to city outskirts. Fare after fare, the night goes. He doesn’t miss conversation much. He’s learned to read his fares behind the glass like texts – it’s all in the eyes, above the mask. He observes the way they watch empty pavements, traffic lights, like they’re adverts.

He curses the gulls –

fucking birds.

He takes this city, while it’s sleeping, while no one else is looking, slipping lane to lane like he’s a king, and in between, he sings, picturing her warm and safe in his bed, breathing.

He doesn’t know when it will end. He thanks God he is working.