The immortal mineral.

And the drinking of life

until harvest.

Stone and song, in the air.

And up there, at night,

noise lags behind

the trail of those

escaping.

.

See where we are going?

Our grief left alone.

With cake of old.

Candles of the meek.

Remember raindrops

as diamonds on

blackberry thornbushes.

Stars moored to Land.

.

I look up and what I see

was long ago.

Light and her ways…

Everything dies down here.

And light keeps up.

Everything dies down here…

Stargazers, Summer, and Us.

.

Louise I. Baker

Did I tell you?

It takes little, for me,

to abandon myself.

Then I hang

my head,

bow low beneath

a dagger

of white-hot

shame.

.

What do you bow to…

If not the harmful?

.

I like the hurt,

believing it,

ancestrally,

to be my place.

They broke me,

that way.

.

Forfeit the person,

and the pain

is a plaything.

.

Did I tell you

how my eyes are

weighed down?

.

I tire, now,

from staying

in this burning

house of grace.

.

Laugh hearty,

stare harshly,

but yes,

I pray.

.

How did I come

to be the one who kneels?

When I don’t believe

in my being forgiven?

.

But I serve.

And I love.

And no dagger

can pierce me.

When I am

both giver

and taker

of mercy.

.

Did I tell you?

If I did,

you would say

“I didn’t ask.”

Because the ones

clad in ice

never do.

.

Louise I. Baker

_{View from the terrace at the house I grew up in and my Dad’s cat, Alice, regally photo-bombing.}

(For my Dad.)

-

I know God

because I know

of how the lifting

piano chords

defy heaven.

.

At August sunset

it fights fierce,

today’s air

but

.

then, my loosening skin,

oh Then, waning eyes,

versus now:

half-way through

and nigh on gone.

An organ missing.

A heart in the red.

One of us

forever collapsed.

Piano ill-tuned.

And oh well.

We’re no worse off.

So we say.

.

Such is the music

and with it

roars that all-eating

storm.

.

We’re not immortal.

There is decay.

There are the stars

now granite

who choked on

their fame.

.

We can respin

none of what

used to glitter.

Remember when,

on our terrace

of the Universe,

everyone had someone to be?

.

We ate fragrance.

We ate riches.

Herbs ever fresh.

The white icy.

The red breathing.

Baguette magique.

Rocamadour in its

edible glories.

.

You played Gershwin,

and Cole Porter,

until dark.

Until the crystal was clear.

.

I follow chords.

They guide me back.

We sing for rain now.

Not in it.

.

Louise I. Baker

We each have our star to follow.

Twinkling, riotous.

Born of the

crystal flask.

.

To each their notes.

And where to now?

While we are stuck…

On this drab train.

.

One space and one

direction.

Our every soul

seeks escape.

We each incant:

Make room for

my wonder.

.

Landscapes,

the bygone,

the ages.

The fury in

the feeling,

in the senses.

.

Doped up we ride

against dullness

endemic.

Our dreams dance

a fighting dance.

.

Each life takes a trip.

On this commute.

In this train car.

Survive on perfume,

on coffee, on

forced hope.

.

Breathe not the fumes

of things,

of others.

Breathe your dreams…

.

These are

the warring dreamlines:

.

Ambergris draws in

desire, from a shore

not your own.

.

Neroli lifts you from

work heels,

to a lost

evening garden.

.

Sandalwood says you

dwell, still,

in that desert night,

high on its shards

of sparkling glass.

.

Musk says that lover

never left,

not truly.

.

Jasmine, in sweet

whiteness,

hides an indole

telling of skin

under silk.

.

All our dream paths

ferrying joys-

of elsewhere-

scream…

For space.

-

Louise I. Baker

Book recommendation (cover shown above):

The Scent Trail, Celia Lyttelton. Bantam Books. 2008.

Seine at boiling sunset.

Flat barge rammed with revellers

manoeuvers inelegantly

around the Ile St Louis.

.

Crud drifts downstream.

In air, in water, in sound.

The waves bounce

to invasive salsa.

.

They’re likely dancing,

some of the transients,

even Parisians,

down by the moorings.

.

This, all this,

turning to dust,

faster, in the heat.

Maxim’s the boat

sails by to this thought.

Gigi and that Paris:

the preserve now,

purely,

of airport souvenirs.

.

The Haussmanian homes

breathe empty.

Their souls are in Biarritz,

Lake Geneva, Lake Victoria…

The riverside rich don’t linger,

in Paris, in July.

.

All is filth.

All of us.

There is ruin

in our wake.

.

Here I am.

Part of it.

It’s not ugly.

And who else

and where else

could I ever be?

-

Knew this place was haunted.

Always.

Smells of coffee- not my brand,

old-time black tobacco smoke,

horse hair…

More than once we were

shoved downstairs.

“This house has misery

in Centuries,”

I heard.

“Take yours elsewhere.”

.

My emotions run so thin,

now.

My heart may as well be dead.

So much left to beat through,

though.

Life is long

when wonder’s numb.

.

Boxes, weighing,

QR codes, customs.

What’s the value of our stuff?

What do we break our

backs over?

.

Pleasure’s been hard to come by.

You’d pour acid over all of this.

For a racing, hot heartbeat,

a shot of sparkle to the brain.

.

Can I leave rottenness

behind?

The land burns here.

The land burns there.

All is fire.

I am ashen.

.

Can I be heaven-bound,

instead?

Can I go and sin no more?

Almighty (forgive me),

I did not intend to pray.

But

see me fall now to worn knees.

See me bow a wretched head.

—

Louise I. Baker

Some talk about America.

Seen through the movies.

How could our Paris compare?

Setting shyness aside,

on a bad day they’re off.

Adding to the empty-bellied,

searching for a dollar

in the night of New York.

Amid the down-and-outs

and castaways,

they’ll say,

heart left in Paris:

.

Where’s my night Club at the mill

in La Place Blanche?

My tobbaconist and local bistrot?

We lived a life of Sundays…

Where are my friends, my people?

Where did the accordeon dances

fly to?

Where did my no-frills dinners go,

those frites in a paper cone?

.

Others believe in bigger money.

Why go those thousands of miles?

Paris is crawling with the gullible.

Start a big sleazy business

with the cash of the good little people.

One day though it crashes.

Oh, scandal.

You’ll sleep at the station,

Monsieur.

Tomorrow off with you to that

Polynesian convict colony.

And you’ll be just another singing:

.

Where’s my Night Club at the mill

in La Place Blanche?

My tobbaconist and local bistrot?

We lived a life of Sundays…

Where are my friends, my people?

Where did the accordeon

dances fly to?

Where did my no-frills dinners go,

those frites in a paper cone?

.

Montmartre though

seems to be fading,

because season in,

and season out,

they’re knocking our

old houses down.

The wastelands of La Butte

will be home soon to the banks.

Where will you go

to love each other then?

You poor kids from Poulbot…

Gazing hazy at what was

we’ll sing, minds on Salis,

De Profundis, Oh Montmartre…

.

Where’s my Night Club at the mill

in La Place Blanche?

My tobbaconist and local bistrot?

We lived a life of Sundays…

Where are my friends, my people?

Where did the accordeon

dances fly to?

Where did my no-frills dinners go,

those frites in a paper cone?

.

Adaptation: Louise I. Baker.

_{(Brest in about 1944. Photograph credit: Archives de Brest.)}

_{(Remains of the Tour d’Auvergne. Between 1940 and 1944. Photograph credit: Archives de Brest.)}

There’s nothing left of Brest.

Clouds and clouds…

Clouds drift over it.

Doggedly, to die.

.

But remember that day…

It was raining in Brest.

The rain was unending.

You sparkled as you walked.

Raindrops trickling down,

you were radiant. Joyful.

Joyous rain

on a joyous face,

on the sea,

on the Ouessant boat.

.

A man was sheltered in a doorway.

Calling out your name.

You surrendered to his arms.

Oh Barbara.

.

Forgive this informality.

I’m informal with the ones

I love, even those I only

met once.

But I must say

you held all lovers with you

that day, as you walked.

.

And, oh Barbara,

war is such a God Damned

mistake.

That boy you were walking to.

The one lovingly holding you

on rue de Siam that day,

when I crossed your path…

Did he disappear, die?

Or does he live, still?

.

And what happened to you,

Barbara?

And where are you, now

that the storm of iron,

steel and blood

has passed?

The rain on Brest is ceaseless.

All is damaged.

Now there are only clouds.

—

_{(Brest post-war, under reconstruction. Photograph credit: Archives de Brest)}

The term ends on an un-Christian note.

In 2026:

Sex: past and present.

Funeral break.

Reflections on the casual evils of fitting in.

“The situation is not resolved.”….

“Come off as totally autistic at all the wrong moments.”

In 2026:

“Knight in shining armour. Suitcase held. Door opened. Ohhh… But he’s not for you.”…. “Of course you could not move on. He would not let you. Simple logistics would not let you.”

“If I were a Mom […], to you, what would I have insisted you do? I am here, Long-Ago Girl. And I will tell you.”

“Before I do though, here is a fact, in your future. You will be the parent of a girl with autism.”

My state was not quite altered.

.

They were all staring at me.

And the space was cramped.

Like a train compartment,

a booth. A cabin.

There was not enough air.

What air there was burned.

In front of me, a to-do list.

Messages to send

about my progress.

.

“Where’s the money?”

Asked the man furthest to my left.

Bald, pale. A signet ring.

“You know what you owe.”

“Don’t you know people like you

have savings, have reserves,

have climbed the ladders?”

.

“Where’s the care?”

Asked the person to his left.

Soft-spoken, young-enough.

Short white hair, eyes cleanly blue.

“You know to always answer the phone

to those who brought you here.”

Concern was flowing across his face.

“You know all there is, besides this,

are the needs of the one you brought in.”

You know what they’ll say, either way.

“Irresponsible.” “Unsuitable””

*
“Where’s the commitment?”

Asked the next man to the left.

And I sensed I knew him.

He seemed to know me.

He was looking at me

like someone who had seen me

over the years.

From every angle.

In every state.

But I can’t now describe him.

“Don’t you want me?

We don’t seem ever

to have any fun.”

*
“And what right have you

to be here?”

Asked the woman to his left.

She had short severe hair.

Grey and unsilver.

Eyes like instant coffee dregs.

“You have applications to send.

You need to get your approvals.

To remain where you are.

To go elsewhere.”

*
”Where’s your self-worth?”

Said the grandma to my right.

She looked like a hippie.

Fun earrings.

“Don’t you know it would help you

feel far less troubled?”

*
And the questions were repeated.

Left to right. Left to right.

And I could not send my messages,

as I worked through my tasks.

The connection was bad.

And I couldn’t answer anything.

Not only because the air

swallowed every sound from my lips.

But because I had no real answers to give.

Louise. I.Baker

in those still bodies of theirs.

Closed eyes contemplating

fair, brilliant morns.

.

They as one, undisturbed

in their hand-clasping forever.

Thus were these lovers put

in the ground, in midtown.

.

They struck me so deep in my heart,

as I closed that bedroom door.

.

Those angels joyous, luminous

against nicotine-stained walls...

They asked me for a roof to stand

proud over their love.

.

That sunshine they carried…

How it hurt me.

How it burnt me.

.

As for me, I wipe the glasses

at the back of the cafe.

No time, any given day,

to allow myself to dream...

Here in the Commonplace.

.

And here they were found.

*
Louise I. Baker

(From the French Institute of National Archives (INA))

(Local note: Gluges is a village a two-minute drive from mine. Half of the homes were built originally into the rock of the cliff. One one of her tours, in the 1950s, Edith Piaf visited Gluges for the first time and was so taken with it and its church that she anonymously funded the restoration of all the church windows. One condition underlying this donation was that she would only be known to be the benefactor after her death (in 1963).)

What I like:

-having a goal

-arguments (which achieve something)

-having energy

-nightfall when the sky is half-clear

-enthusiasts

-my pool in Summer in the evening

-how the garden smells in Summer: you could be outside the world

In 2025:

Someone observing me might think… Comfortable frequent-flyer Mom.

And someone noting that I swallowed my delayed dose of Paroxetine with a gulp of sparkling wine might think: Pill-head comfortable frequent-flyer Mom.

You pierced me as you grew.

(I wanted you to grow.)

It killed you. Like a bumblebee.

Sharp shooters at life… We all are.

.

You died. I came to collect you.

(Baby mine. No more, no less.)

I turned you to gold.

You made me the alchemist.

.

People like me know dusk, too.

Those who truly look can see it.

Burned at the back of each retina.

.

You were just light.

Shone for some weeks.

Then gone.

.

A Christlike age to die, they told me.

With tubes, with pumps, paraphernalia…

I got dragged back.

I am later-dust, they said.

Go back… Make do.

.

I am the garden that eats itself.

So says the scar above your bed.

Injustice to me, injustice to us.

.

Oh Mother Nature…

Santísima Muerte.

Most Holy Death.

Here’s what you can’t know:

My star sleeps (perfect) on my skin.

Lives through me.

And I am she.

-

Louise I. Baker

-

Note: In October 2020, mid-second London lockdown, aged 33 and the mother of a fifteen month-old baby girl, I threw up then collapsed, unconscious, in my bathroom.

I had called paramedics the week before with extreme abdominal pain. We had decided together then I was not quite sick enough for the emergency room (not in Covid Prime Time).

My husband called the ambulance this second time. At St Thomas’s Hospital I was quickly found to be nine weeks pregnant. The pregnancy was in the wrong place and had ruptured. The bleeding was so extensive no-one could tell me where the baby had been growing.

I lost almost two litres of blood, had an abdominal washout, had a blood transfusion. Went home after a few days. I bought my shooting star pendant in the days that followed and have only ever taken it off for an MRI, once.

When my next pregnancies failed as well, I was at least given some reasons: adenomyosis, endometriosis, fibroids normally seen in women twenty years older than I, and Hashimoto’s disease, whereby my immune system was destroying my thyroid (and probably attacking any embryonic cells I was growing, as well). My thyroid and its large nodules were removed two years ago.

I can never stop writing about any of this.

Mostly, a lot of self-slut-shaming. Related to Dan… Unrelated to Dan.

It gets darker in 2025:

On the decline and disappearance of elders. On being a parent, needing a parent.

At first there is nothing.

Just sulphur. Just silence.

The threat and the presence…

A simple divining.

There is weight to the air.

Knowledge in it, too.

.

The petals will fly.

The network will crash.

This tree will burn.

That field will flood.

.

I believe, and I hope…

You will swallow me whole.

.

The howling will heal.

The thundering appease.

The flashes reset.

The water polish.

.

You will love me to death.

You will disappear me.

In one storm only.

And swallow me.

Whole.

-

Louise I. Baker

“Something else will come along. Something always does.”

“Let’s say everything would be more straightforward if on the evening of the seventh we had not walked home together pissed as newts and had not kissed.”

In 2025:

“Dan Everett was the type your mother would approve of (public-school, Catholic, a rugby player, a (sort-of) French speaker). He was funny (just like your Dad). He was a type who would fit in with the much-admired wealthy cousins crowd from your childhood. He was gregarious and would vicariously mean a rich social life for you, perhaps, eventually. He would make you look cherished…”