Translation of Baudelaire's L'Héautontimorouménos

(Having a goth moment the other night, I decided to translate one of my favourite poems of all time...)


Je te frapperais sans colère
Et sans haine, comme un boucher,
Comme Moïse le rocher !
Et je ferais de ta paupière,

Pour abreuver mon Saharah,
Jaillir les eaux de la souffrance .
Mon désir gonflé d'espérance
Sur tes peurs salés nagera

Comme un vaisseau qui prend le large,
Et dans mon coeur qu'ils soûleront
Tes chers sanglots retentiront
Comme un tambour qui bat la charge !

Ne suis-je pas un faux accord
Dans la divine symphonie,
Grâce à la vorace Ironie
Qui me secoue et qui me mord ?

Elle est dans ma voix, la criarde !
C'est tout mon sang, ce poison noir !
Je suis le sinistre mirroir
Où la mégère se regarde !

Je suis la plaie et le couteau !
Je suis le soufflet et la joue !
Je suis les membres et la roue,
Et la victime, et le bourreau !

Je suis de mon coeur le vampire,
- Un de ces grands abandonnés
Au rire éternel condamnés,
Et qui ne peuvent plus sourire !


I will strike you without anger
And without hate, like a butcher;
As Moses struck for water!
And to moisten my Sahara

I will bring showers from your eyes.
Buoyed up with hope, my swollen desire
Will raise itself out of the mire
And sail out under your blue skies

Like a moored ship when fair weather comes.
And in my heart, which they will shake,
Your sweet sobs will reverberate
Like the rhythm of a slave-ship's drums.

And am I not a misplaced note
In the divine symphony
Thanks to voracious irony
Forever sticking in my throat?

She's in my voice, the scheming whore.
My blood is poison, slick and black.
I'm her reflection looking back:
Her looking-glass, and nothing more.

I am the knife-wound and the blade,
The killer dancing in the air,
The priest who prays, the crowd that stare,
And the knot that the hangman made.

I am the breather of my sighs:
My heart's own vampire, caught in rhyme,
Condemned to laugh 'til the end of time
Without a smile in my eyes.

Gaijin Weekend

In the cool dark of the bar
Schoolgirl wannabe dancing:
My serpentining beauty, rounds on rounds
And round and round as the room starts spinning,
And finally I feel at home again

Then lost out on the city grid
With no orientation programme:
All the streets look the same
And I'm going nowhere

Making deals with my conscience when I get
To smoke another cigarette
Dragging out the old vices
To remind myself of where I've been

And back in my box again
Cracking open a beer
Hiding the kitchen knife
And punching the walls

Lay my head on the pillow to listen to the voices:
It's just me and the whiskey
Against the ghosts in the night
And tomorrow morning it's all genki genki genki
With the sun in my eyes
So I can't see the red lights.

Spend the day dehydrated
And muzaked to death
'Til I'd kill for a chance
Just to be less extraneous

But there's no second chance
For a deer in the headlights
Watch the blue sky turn to grey
As I waste another year

Runaway

A door closed behind
And their voices are fading.
Tired of being
Their little girl

You followed the horizon
And found it to be blue:
An embrace of surf and sky
At the edge of your world.

So close your eyes,
Throw your thoughts to the winds
In armfuls as the waves kiss your knees

This is
The perfect way
To run away to sea.

The sun sets for you
And the moon watches over;
The wind is a lullaby
To smooth out your dreams.

Fall asleep in the sand, dreaming
Of icecream for breakfast
And fishes for tea
And never having
To say you're sorry

And wake up in a cold-fingered bundle
To watch the tide come stealing in:

Watch the waves spill out their strength
And suck your feet into the sand;
Watch the waves that break too early
Fall back into line.

The light's still on in your old room.
Some waves will never break at all.
So put a ribbon in your hair
And walk yourself back home.

Beside the river

The breeze is cool
Beside the river
Relentless blue sky
Breaks the first crust of moon.

A heron looks me over,
Glassy-eyed gaijin stare,
Then flies away across the water
As the cicadas start up again.

The rocks are warm
Beside the river
I lie back and
Let my thoughts rest on you.

The tide and its takers

Silent now as I find my balance. A moment of calm, standing barefoot in the sand. Then the tide comes in again in one long rush, taking me by surprise and sucking the ground out from under me, and suddenly I am swimming again, gasping, struggling just to keep my head above water, and at the same time smiling, embracing, wondering where it will take me this time…

Everyone knew, of course. That was how it started: a shared holding of breath as you entered the room. I was in business mode, capable and determined to remain so, but even so you caught me off balance. It was like I’d never looked at you before or realised or allowed myself to realise how beautiful you are, all the things I shouldn’t, couldn’t help wanting to think about rushing in with just your briefest of smiles.

Someone told me they’d told you: the old game of guessing if you knew that I knew, wondering if the next move was yours or mine. Then flickers, hints: comparing eye colours, or the moment when you walked in, an angel in white shirt and blue jeans, to take my breath away and leave me jealous all evening of anyone else who got a smile from you, drinking so as not to notice the blonde you stood next to at the bar. I'd expected a slow sort of intrigue, but you blew away all my subtleties, daring me to up my game. Your honesty caught us all off guard that night, laid itself bare, unimpeachable, and left a tantalising silence in the room as you took yourself off to bed. Dramatic exit at just the perfect moment. I didn’t have a clue what to say.

Touchdown for a while. Feel the silt at the bottom, accumulated layers of dead things and sand, bits of rock that the tide rubbed away. It is soft underfoot, almost solid in places, but soft, and when your feet sink in it’s hard to kick free. I always come back here sooner or later, when I get tired of swimming and need somewhere to rest, something to sink to, to let myself down. The tide stirs the mud, and I think I see faces, old sea-ghosts drifting in to tell me their tales. But now is not the time to sit and listen to mouths full of water making their mawkish laments for a sun that doesn’t reach them any more. Now is time to struggle and surface, find the sun for myself and write my own stories. This grey world will be here, dependable as the rain, however hard I try to forget and however many times I leave it behind. But its hold on me is broken, the rope of a shipwreck frayed by time. To think I spent so much of my life here, before I learnt to swim.

And then everything sharpened into intensity. Every hour had its little revelations and conclusions and indecisions. Every moment could bring something to send me flying or bring me toppling down again, muttering ghost-words of a thousand endeavours that failed before they were even begun. Hardly daring to breathe I kept an eye on your every move, waiting my turn and playing by inches, praying for patience and trying not to give the game away.

Another wave: that bruise on your arm and how much I wanted to kiss it; trading philosophies and drinking tea til 3am; going to bed dazzled, talking to you in my sleep and waking up eager to see you at breakfast. And then that smile as you walked away, that backward glance that read like a confession, a concession, something precious now in my memory locked. It was a gift, all in that moment: the best gift you could have given me.

Respite at last, just as I was thinking I would never find it. Amidst the waves I see you there, looking out over the water, standing still. You hold out a hand, catch an arm worn out with swimming, and smile at me as my feet find solid ground. A shelf of rock hidden just under the surface. Somewhere just to pause and be. It is small, narrow, difficult to share. Easy to lose your footing. But there, indisputably, and not so hard to find again once you know about it. Trusting myself to it, and you, I stand at your side and listen as you tell me the tale of your own swimming, of all the times you thought you would drown, all the things you saw at the bottom and where you drew the strength from to surface again. I listen, humbled, holding your hand, and wish for more wishes, more time to listen to the tale of you.

One weekend made to count for so many. Kissing you was like a breath of fresh air. Fragments of poetry spring to mind.

This ecstasy doth unperplex…

Absent from thee I languish still…

And aphorism too: philosophy for the rainy days spent hiding under blankets on your sofa. The clouds will disperse just as surely as they will gather. Sometimes life can be blue skies. We will not always have to swim just to stay above water. Sometimes our feet will touch the ground.

Poetry again, breathed in a whisper.

Come live with me, and be my love

Safe word

A warning shot
As stormclouds gather
Rain on the windows
Time to play

Take my time
To rip you open
No time for comfort
Not today

There is no love here
No love to lose
Just skin to scar
And hearts to bruise
So pretty boy lay down
Way to screw my karma
I'm waiting for the dark to cover me

Cold in here
Alone together
I taste your sweat
And smell your terror

Kiss your neck
And feel you shudder
Feel you offer up
Good little boy

There is no safe word
Here in my head
I hold you down
You hold your breath
So pretty boy cry for me
Way to rouse my demons
I'm waiting for them to take over me

There is no beauty
Now passion is gone
You find the door
I sleep alone
So pretty boy run away
Way to waste an evening
I'm waiting for the earth to swallow me

And this is not the way it should have been...

Tiptoeing

Fingers crossed
You keep leaving me breathless
Falling over myself
Just to follow your light

Tiptoe in
And testing the water
Waiting for the honour
To kiss you goodnight

Belongings

(for T.S. Eliot)

Faustus: Stay Mephastophilis! and tell me what good
Will my soul do thy lord?
Mephastophilis: Enlarge his kingdom
Faustus: Is that the reason why he tempts us thus?
Mephastophilis: Solamen miseris socios habuisse doloris

Let us go then, you and I,
Where the adverts are writ large across the sky
(The gospel truth to tell us what to buy)
Let us go to fill the hole
To find the things we never knew we needed
(Pour découvrir comment combler
La troue que ce matin j’ai trouvé
Quand, à côté de toi, je me suis reveillé)
Oh, do not ask ‘What is it?’
Let us go and make our visit.

Let us go
Before it gets to closing time
‘Tis not too late to seek a better world.

In the street the people come and go
Basking in the afterglow

The yellow sun that spills in through the window,
The yellow sun that paws his way in through the window,
Busy old fool, he shows up every crease
In this flawed landscape of skin and sin and sheets
(Ainsi qu’un débauché pauvre qui baise et mange
Le sein martyrisé d’une antique catin)
And comes around again to break our peace.
Let us go then, with no talk of what has been:
There will be time tonight to falter and begin.

In the street the people come and go
Basking in the afterglow

The shops serve up their promises
To restless eyes, where everything’s for sale.
Reverent steps shuffle past stocked windows,
Dream from the same stock of dreams,
The same branded fantasies, carefully spun
From common denominators; content to be contained.

And all the girls come out to play
To spread their wares on a Saturday night
Make their special offers
(Two for one if you get lucky)
And come with a good will or come not at all

And all the boys go body shopping
Pick up their partners on sale-or-return
Take a zero-tolerance line on attachment
(Statutory masculinity never affected)
And everything’s alright.

And indeed there will be time
To make a narrative out of it all
To anatomise each near miss
Each kiss
That ended the fairytale
And time yet to make all the same mistakes again.

There will be time, there will be time
To sing the bitter song of my experience;
To watch revelations spark and falter in your eyes
And wonder do I dare, and do I dare
To share the trudge and sweat and ache of days
Spent edging round an overwhelming question,
And learning to forget the sting of years
Spent wondering what the years are for
And losing faith with every revolution
Blunt to the purpose, my resolution wearing thin?

Do I dare
Disturb the universe?

For I have known them all already, known them all
I have seen the tourists on the Berlin wall
I have measured out my life in ballot slips
And watched the poison spill from power’s lips.
I have self-medicated with the rest
‘Til memory itself became a fume.
So how shall I presume?

And I have known the words already, known them all
The chants that falter with a dying fall
Before the promise of a pay-rise; stall
Beside the longing for an easy life
And turn to groans as comfort twists the knife
Stuck deep in now, integral to the flesh
That forms and ripens in a lover’s womb.
And how should I presume?

And I have known the pain already, known it all,
I have seen the trail of losses left behind
To mark my passing; chewed the bitter rind
For the last savour of the fruit, and drunk
The backwash of my pleasures,
And counted myself lucky to have been so blessed.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?

Should I tell you that this brave new world
Is new only to thee?

Besides, the afternoon, the evening comes on so peacefully.
Withdrawal in disgust is not the same as apathy:
We’ll take this as our motto. You and me
Could make a virtue of necessity;
Keep our heads down safe beneath the watchful eyes.
For I have seen them crack the whip
From Genoa to the Gaza strip.
I have seen what I have left to lose
And in short I am afraid.

And what would it mean, this common man’s dream
(To mortgage himself somewhere out in suburbia,
Sign his pact with normalcy,
Start a family)
If one were to say
“That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it at all”

And where could it lead, in this common-denominated world
Of serialised monogamy,
Fiscal responsibility,
If one, resting her chin on her hands
With her eyes full of other places,
Reaching out across the space between us
Were to say
“That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant at all”.

No! Orpheus, I will not follow you.
I ‘gin to grow aweary of the sun!

Let us go then, you and I,
Through crowds who never look up at the sky,
Until, consumer-chosen
And carefully customer serviced,
We have acquired a taste for modern life
Completed our course of retail therapy
(Faisons les courses, ma chèrie)
And done our duty for queen and economy.

Possessed of our possessions
And occupied by our occupations
(La sottise, l’erreur, le péché, la lésine,
Occupent nos ésprits et travaillent nos corps)
We will be taken in the day’s takings
And belong through our belongings.

We’ll smile and wave in our 15 minutes of fame
And realise in the end perhaps we were
Not waving but drowning.

Thus comfort doth make cowards of us all.

http://www.bartleby.com/198/1.html

Black dog on my shoulder - Manic Street Preachers

There's a black dog on my shoulder again
Licking my neck and saying she's my friend
Solitude the one thing that I really miss
Guess my life is a compromise

There's a black dog on my shoulder again
I'm playing with it but it's gone to my head
Like Carlito's way there are no exit signs

Freeze me there until I'm numb
My mouth is so dry
My eyes are shut tight
There's a black dog a coming tonight
Black dog's a coming tonight

My dilemma but not my choice
Winston Churchill can you hear my voice
Melodrama there in my kitchen sink
Double vision the way it is

Am I coming home to you again
Or am I stupid just by design
Does it matter if you really ever know

This black dog is out of control
My mouth is so dry
My eyes are shut tight
There's a black dog a coming tonight
Black dog's a coming tonight

Another goodbye

Thank you for the time
Oh why didn't I take it?
Thank you for the friend
Oh why on earth did I make it?
Sometimes I wonder if it's really worth it:
It's just another goodbye

(Words of wisdom from my 11-year-old former self; just popped into my head this morning, getting ready for another string of goodbyes...)

Textual Relations

And then they woke up.

Or that’s what it felt like. She knew she should have said something, something embracing, to comprehend and overwrite the silence instead of just filling it. But she didn’t know how to talk to him. Difficult to know which role to play. Saint of the Impossible? The Other Woman? Incidental Factor? Maybe she should just pull a Mary Poppins act, disappear now that the family unit was on the mend. Practically perfect people never permit sentiment to muddle their thinking, after all. And what would happen to me, may I ask, if I loved all the children I said goodbye to?

It was easier to talk to him when he wasn’t there. Then at least she got a chance to shape her words a bit, sound them out, write a script she could be proud of. The difficulty was trying to condense it down into 160 characters, with space enough for intros and fillers. I don’t know what to say to you? It sounded like something her mother would say, probably had said in some argument or other. Too confrontational, too much of an ending. How about I don’t know how to talk to you any more? Melodramatic: there wasn’t much of an any more to speak of, after all, and besides it smacked of Hollywood breakdown.

Other people’s words. She had to try and come up with something that sounded more her own. I feel like... what exactly? I'm seventeen again sprang to mind, but she didn't want to tell that story, the epic non-romance conducted via MSN Messenger when the girlfriend wasn't around. Besides, that wasn't it exactly. More like the novelty of me wore off, or maybe my best before date ran out. Nothing special was a little too emo, really, though she still had the t-shirt, the song half-written in her head, an unfinished anthem of faltering self-esteem. Shakespeare still interrogated her about that one sometimes. What's ought but as 'tis valued?

I don't know... seemed too obvious, epistemological uncertainty sort of being her calling card and all. It didn't really get you anywhere. But she needed the don't, and she was getting sick of this now. I don't like... was better, but it sounded like the beginning of an accusation. She had to modify it somehow, play it by inches, let go of the anger and just tiptoe into some sort of reopening of communications.

Unable to find the right phrase, in the end she just tumbled them all together. I don't like feeling like I don't know how to talk to you. Clumsy, but then this whole evening had made her feel clumsy: she wasn't sure she knew how to be anything else right now. Besides, looked at from a literary perspective it had a certain poetic aptness: an almost-antimetabole with feeling in the middle, unravelling itself as it stumbled into its more simplistic second clause. We are not my only self-critic indeed. Her Director of Studies would be proud.

She bit her lip, pressed ‘send’, and instantly wondered if she’d done the right thing. There was such a thing as companionable silence, after all, and what more could you expect from a person on standby? Perhaps it would have been better to say nothing at all...

Post-feminism, anyone?

I cannot articulate how much this song makes me wish I hadn't been born human:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o-jFKW4vrCw

Scarlet Letters

Stop. That was what red meant to her.

She remembered early lessons as a child: that sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach when she saw it in her dad’s face, and the lesson on forgiveness as the flush faded from her sore skin (it’s not enough to say you’re sorry; you have to do something about it, you have to stop doing what you’re doing wrong).

Then tracing lines in white with her fingernails that turned to red if you dug in hard enough, to show that she was sorry, that she knew she’d done something wrong again. It was all about penance, extirpations of guilt, Christ on the cross putting sin at a standstill. It wasn’t a million miles to the razorblade at age fourteen, the red that slipped slick and luxurious across her skin, blood sacrifice to keep the demons at bay, keep the anger locked up behind a criss-crossed network of scars and let it out in short, sharp bursts when no one was watching.

Something about red elastic bands. Like a code laid out along the pavement. You almost wouldn’t notice them if you didn’t know they were there, but once you knew, suddenly they were everywhere. She had to remember what it was he’d said about them.

There were other things later. Rites of passage. Red that said she couldn’t be a child any more. Red on some guy’s fingers, on the towel on her parents’ living room floor. Endings that were meant to be beginnings. The story didn’t quite play out how it was supposed to.

It came and went for a while, much like the men in her life, and the anger. She saw it drunk one night in a lover’s smug smile, and it took three guys to hold her off. In the morning just bruises, bite-marks, places where she’d tried but failed to reach the blood through the skin. That was always the problem really: she couldn’t reach him any more. Time to stop trying. Time to move on.

Red elastic bands. There one was, at her feet, and she remembered the answer: Royal Mail. The postmen threw them away every morning as they were doing their rounds. No real significance, then. But it would serve as a reminder. She picked it up, put it round her wrist, and joined the resistance.

Dying of Boredom

To: Ms Susanna Boyd
From: The late Elizabeth Boyd
C/O: I. M. A. Foni Mediums Inc
Subject: RE: Is ya dead?

I never really believed you could die of boredom. I'd heard the phrase, of course, even used it myself on occasion (on numerous occasions, in fact, towards the end) but I never really thought it would actually happen.

How wrong I was. All it took was one particularly slow day in the office, followed by a rainy evening spent playing the latest in a long line of 'hidden object' (instant eyestrain) and 'time management' (virtual wage slavery) games, to tip me over the edge. Monotonous toxicity, the nurses muttered as I was rushed through A&E in a state of semi-conscious paralysis, unable even to lift a finger. Overexposure to lack of stimulation.

It was a lifestyle thing, apparently. I'd long ago exceeded my boredom thresholds, developed a hefty tolerance to all things mundane and repetitive, and in doing so had damaged certain regions of my brain beyond repair. They'd usually have recommended some form of boredom offsetting – generally a cocktail of prescription drugs and a course of therapy - long before it reached this point, but of course, what with the near-total lack of public awareness about this surprisingly common complaint, and with the NHS in the state it’s in, it was easy for things like this to slip through the net. I’d been misdiagnosed a couple of times, in fact: depression (the commonest misdiagnosis for someone in my condition, apparently, due to a striking similarity of symptoms), alcoholism (my attempt at self-medication), even borderline personality disorder from one particularly creative psychiatrist with a penchant for exotic labels. No one had hit on the right answer. Not until it was already too late.

There wasn’t a lot they could do for me. They tried everything they could think of: TV, women’s magazines, the latest pop music (all along with the finest pharmaceuticals, of course), but nothing helped. It got to the point where I couldn’t even focus my eyes on anything without a sharp pain stabbing through my temples, followed by a wave of despair when I realised that what was causing the pain was the fact that I’d seen it all before. Nothing new under the sun, so the saying goes. Never thought that would end up seeming quite so true.

And that was it really. Nothing seemed to hold my attention. I started sleeping more and more. Pretty soon I gave up waking up at all. They kept me dosed up on hallucinogenics for a while, monitoring my brainwaves and picking up flickers of interest, but even that soon got old. I got sick of the sight of my own subconscious: it was all so derivative, so disappointingly clichéd. I learnt to control the trips, dig deeper, peel back layers of neurotic obsession, post-religious pseudo-revelation, hall-of-mirrors identity crises, misdirected libido and all the other detritus of my Gordian-knotted psyche, but however far in I got there was always another layer beyond, another heap of junk for me to tear my way through. I was trying to find something inside me that was worth hanging onto, something that hadn’t been done before, but the harder I looked the more I realised how much of me was just bits of other people, movies, books, internalised cultural assumptions. In the end I just gave up. It was all so samey, so passé, so, well, boring. Time to make my exit.

It’s not so bad, being dead. In fact there are a lot of advantages. Not having a body is a big plus. No more junk food, ready meals, weekends spent juggling different states of inebriation, trips to the gym for a shot of endorphins and a bit of penance for it all. No more hangovers on a Monday morning, aches and pains from god knows where, no more listening in the night to the incessant beating of a heart that just doesn’t know when to call it quits. Then there’s all the things you see, the things you start to understand and even accept. Like the fact that we’re all pretty similar really, whatever we might like to think, and that we don’t really know shit about all the things we take for granted. It doesn’t seem so bad on reflection. In fact, life looks pretty good from out here. Pretty amazing, actually. Not boring at all…

Everything Else

You that could make my heart away
For noise and colour, and betray
The secrets of my tender hours... - Rochester, A Ramble in St James's Park


Wednesday morning
Creeps up on me
Wake up thinking
Late again

You're holding me still
But I know better
Time to go now
I'm ready for the rain.

Pictures on your wall
How happy you were
How beautiful
The days before

Makes me feel so
Incidental
Watch you sleeping
Tell myself I wanted nothing more

And you know that I would be there in an instant
If you needed me to
Run crazy Sundays
But it all comes back to where we started
Saints of the impossible
Give everything away too soon
'Cos I know she's your everything
And I'm just your everything else

Walked into your warzone
With eyes wide open
Saw it coming
No one else to blame

Break the silence
Work your magic
Broken words still
Trying to outrun the speed of pain

Let's stay up all night again
Watch the morning come.
Let's just run away again
From the places we've called home
But you'll still keep calling it home
I'll take that as goodbye.
I'll take that as goodbye.

And remember I was there to play for comfort
When you needed me to
Run wild, remind you
Of all the things you really wanted
This saint of the impossible
Will find some place to sleep tonight
'Cos I won't take her place again
To play your everything else

Back off slowly
In the afterglow
Admit defeat now
Time to go

Don't want to be your
Nothing special
When she's beside you
There's no room for anybody else...

Under the Ice

Fingers pressed to the ice, raw and burning. I don't care. I want to see. Mummy will be so impressed when she finds me here, she won't even think to tell me what a bad boy I've been. It's the perfect hiding-place: cold and dark, peeking out on a grey world where blurry people-shapes come and go and don't notice me watching. The ice changes everything: I can only see the sky in patches, full of big grey clouds promising snow, and the bare tree branches look like black lines of paint, pointing nowhere. When the sun comes it makes everything above me sparkle, and when it gets dark I try and guess which lights are stars and which ones are reflections. I like it here. I'm glad it's taken mummy so long to find me.

I was scared at first. I'd seen them moving under the ice, the shadow-people with pleading faces, beckoning and leading me towards the middle of the lake. I knew I shouldn't go there, mummy said so, but the ice felt so thick and strong at first, and I wanted to know what they were trying to tell me. I felt something shift under my feet, felt something pushing, tilting the sheet of ice that I was standing on. Then there was a shout, and a sound like a shot, and suddenly I was standing on nothing. The cold knocked the breath out of me as I lashed out with my arms, trying to get rid of the things that I felt wrapping round them, pulling me down. I remember the taste of fear, the water flooding into my mouth as I screamed for help. Then moments of black bitter panic as it filled my eyes and ears, when all I could see was a vague glow high above me, and the shadow-people looking on, welcoming me with open arms and grasping hands. I struggled again, weakly, trying to push them away as a dull ache spread through me, as the coldness came into my bones. Cold, too cold to fight, too cold to think. I felt a burning pain growing in my chest as the water got into my lungs...

Then silence. Silence, and the soft mud of the bottom, covered with rubbish and thick slimy weeds. The water I sucked into my lungs stopped burning, and I felt a dead weight float away from me as I kicked my legs, as I swam for the jagged hole in the ice. But the shadow-people held me back, running their clammy hands over my body, whispering promises in sad, smothered voices. I felt sorry for them somehow; they seemed so lonely, and they only wanted me to stay and play. So I stayed, drifting with them in a kind of slow dance, thinking how much mummy would love to see this secret place that I had discovered. All had to was wait for her to come looking, wait patiently and quietly like I have been for so long, like I am now. Hide and seek is my favourite game, me and mummy play it all the time. She'll know what to do. Soon I'll hear her calling, see the surprise on her face when she spots me here. Then I can show her my secret place, under the ice...

* * *

I always said I'd never come back here, not after what happened. Too many memories, fragments of the happiness which was shattered, images of his face in my mind. And yet here I am, eyes streaming in the bitter wind, arms wrapped tight around me against the all-engulfing cold. January, when the world is all curled in on itself, when the frost sparkles on the stiff grass and the sky is a sleepy grey. And today is the very day, the day which all the sleeping pills and drink can't make me forget, the day my world fell apart. If James knew I was here he'd be so worried. He'd put his arms around me and insist I came home at once, he'd treat me like something small and fragile and try to distract me with kisses. But his wide brown eyes just go blind when he doesn't know how to make me feel better, he can't understand that there is a part of me which he can never touch or own, a part reserved for my little boy. James was my saviour at first, when I was crazy with grief and used to wander out in the cold at night, bottle in hand and no idea where I was going. He was always the one who came looking for me, caught me up in an embrace even when I was wild with anger, let me struggle and beat my fists against him until I was worn out enough just to collapse into his arms. For that I love him completely, love him for raising me from the ashes and giving me a new life. But today is a day for solitude, to return to the place where it all happened and replay in my mind what had happened. I knew James would never understand or allow this. So I sneaked out, left him a note full of reassuring lies, and came here to walk by the lake and remember my baby, remember the day he was stolen from me.

That day, a year ago today, had dawned so beautifully. The sun came up behind pastel pink clouds, smearing them orange as it crept over the horizon. I was up early, busying myself with all the usual morning tasks, but I paused in the middle of the previous night's washing up to stare out of the window at the waking world. A thick frost held the garden in stiff, icy silence, broken only by the boisterous little sparrows scraping for food in the cold. Poised on the garden fence like a tabby gargoyle, next door's cat watched the birds in mute, threatening fascination, waiting for a chance to spring. And high above, a plane like an arrow-head left a glistening furrow in the sky while seagulls swooped unaware through the cloudy depths. A perfect winter morning, lacking only the thin blanket of snow which the heavy sky seemed to promise. I had to wake Tommy.

Creeping into his room, I reached out a hand to gently shake his shoulder, but his serene expression held me back. I stepped back, smiling down at him, his face a picture of warm contentment framed by tousled golden locks. Watching him sleep always made me remember why I carried on loving him from day to day, how I managed to put up with his boundless energy and obstinacy, his sudden tantrums. Watching him sleep made me forget all the times he drove me crazy and focus on the special times we had together, when he was all giggles and mischief charging around with me in the garden, or calm and sleepy nearing bedtime, cuddling up and falling asleep on my shoulder. He was his father's son, no doubt about it. He'd inherited his energy and his quick temper, his every mood reflected perfectly in his deep blue eyes. And in the end he broke my heart as surely as his father did, leaving me so soon and without warning, leaving me alone.

Alone as I am now, walking through the park, not wanting to admit to myself where I'm going. Alone in spite of James' kind incomprehension and his efforts to save me from myself. No-one can save me from this, the guilt which forces me to make this pilgrimage. I brought Tommy here, after all. What happened to him was my fault, no matter what anyone says. And it had seemed like such a good idea on that day, a year ago, just to drop everything and go for a walk in the park. Tommy had loved the idea straight away. It was one of his favourite places. In summer I used to take him out almost every day, to enjoy the sunshine and sit by the lake. He loved the lake. He could sit there for hours, sailing sticks and throwing stones, watching the ripples distort his reflection. Sometimes he would just stare into the water, watching the play of sunlight and shadow on the bottom, muttering in a conspiratory voice and then waiting in silence as if he expected the shadows to reply. I always watched over him, hawk-eyed, when he played this game, in case his curiosity led him too close to the water's edge. The lake was much deeper than it looked, and anything could have been lurking at the bottom.

Often to distract him from this game, I'd get him to play hide and seek. I would close my eyes and start counting, and he would run and find a hiding place nearby. He knew so many; his 'secret places', he called them. He could have stayed hidden for hours if I hadn't cheated, if I hadn't open my eyes as soon as I heard his footsteps running away...

I can see the lake now. I knew I shouldn't have come here. Too many memories, all flooding in at once. At least there is no-one here now, no-one to accuse me with their eyes and offer worthless sympathy with their tongue. There had been a crowd that day, all jostling and shouting and getting in the way, trying to keep me back from the terrible scene at the water's edge... No, don't remember that yet. Think about how it happened, see those last few hours replayed again in your mind, before the madness started, before everything went wrong...

It was biting cold as we walked through the park. Frost still clung to everything, and the paths were treacherous with ice. And still there were plenty of people around, mothers with their children, men walking dogs, people just enjoying the calm, cold beauty of a January morning. Tommy's little gloved hand clung to mine as he sauntered along beside me, humming cheerfully out of tune. A robin landed on the path in front of us, and he stopped in his tracks.
"Look, mummy," he exclaimed, pointing at the startled bird, which flitted to a bush at a safe distance and regarded us with beady-eyed curiosity, "Robin!"
I smiled down at him, and he gave me cheeky grin, before letting go of my hand and tottering towards the bush where the bird was trying unsuccessfully to hide. Startled, it hopped from one branch to another before eventually taking flight. Tommy sent his mocking laughter after it in a cloud of steam, and returned to my side.

We walked slowly through the frozen world, watching our breath rise in glorious plumes of smoke like the long sighs of dragons, which we pretended to be for a while, chasing each other along the path. There was an enchantment in the bitter wind, something old and brooding and unfamiliar, and it made me shiver in spite of myself. Winter always felt like that to me: rich and strange, shrouding everything in frost and snow until you weren't even sure of your way home, making the world seem ancient and magical and sad somehow. I trusted winter back then. I used to think that the cold made everything safe, that at this time of year all danger was locked in sleep, awaiting the spring thaw. I know better now. Winter is an old god; he still demands his sacrifices.

By the time we reached the lake I was beginning to tire of Tommy's endless enthusiasm for every new sight. It delighted me that he was so full of life and curiosity, but I just couldn't match this cheerfulness for long. Life had left its marks on me, as difficult to hide as the bruises Tommy's father used to leave, and some days I just felt so worn and tired when I saw that spark in Tommy's eyes and new that one day it would go out, that he would grow up and the world would leave its marks on him too.

It never occurred to me that it could all be over so soon. He was so full of life, crunching his way through the last of the autumn leaves made crisp by the frost, and running back to me to tell me all about his little adventures. He was invincible, and then he was gone, and who can I blame for it but myself? I'd brought him to the lake in the hope that I could have some peace and quiet for a few moments, just sit on the park bench and be alone with the thoughts that had picked that moment to force their way into my mind. Dark thoughts, memories of Tommy's father. I sat down and shooed Tommy away to play, watching as he clambered down the bank and approached the water's edge.
"Don't go too close," I called after him.

The surface of the lake was thickly frozen over. Here and there brittle bulrush stems poked out from the ice's stranglehold, dancing jerkily in the wind. Tommy continued to advance, slowly, testing his footing, until he was within a footstep of the glinting ice. Then he knelt down and lowered his face almost to the level of the water, as if watching something. Every so often he would murmur to himself, and then cock his head as if waiting for a reply. It was entertaining at first, then disconcerting. What game could he be playing? I called him back from the edge of the lake, my voice ringing uncertainly in the still air, and saw him hesitate for a moment, staring quizzically down at the ice near his feet. Then he came trotting back loyally across the stiff grass, laughing gleefully as he blew out a lungful of steam, and clambered onto the bench beside me.
"Let's play hide-and-seek," he suggested, looking up at me expectantly.
"It's too cold," I told him, hoping he'd give up on the idea and amuse himself, so I could have a few more minutes. I loved him to death, but I didn't have the energy to be his playmate twenty-four hours a day.

It was the look on his face that finally persuaded me to play, against my better judgement. Something in those wide, pleading blue eyes that made it impossible for me to refuse.
"Oh, alright then," I conceded, watching his eyes light up. Reaching up, he gave me a quick kiss on the cheek, then scrambled off the bench and stood before me.
"And no cheating this time," he warned, "You have to close your eyes". I smiled at him then. How very like his father, to be the sweetest creature in the world when he got his own way. Obligingly I closed my eyes, and listened to his scampering footsteps fade into the distance...

There's a thick crust of ice on the lake today as before, shimmering in the sunlight. I can almost see why...why it happened. There's something treacherously enticing about the way it glistens, like jewels of dew on a spider's web. A cold, bitter beauty in the drowsy stillness of winter, a fairy-light to lead a child astray. There's always room at Titania's court for a lost little boy with an angel's face and golden hair, whose mother only closed her eyes for a second before he went scampering off...

But no: all the stories that I tell myself can't take away the simple fact of what happened. It would be so sweet to pass the blame, to accuse anything, even the sharp glitter of the ice for being so irresistible, to pretend something other than my own carelessness stole my child from me. But I know it isn't true. Weary, worn out suddenly by the sheer weight of memories that now crowd into my mind, I sit down on a nearby bench, perhaps the very same one that I sat on that day, and allow a great wave of numb horror to sweep over me at last. James was right: I wasn't ready for this. It is as if the pain had just lain in wait for me here, unchanged through all the madness of the last year, knowing I would return to relive that terrible moment. As if echoes of that day still lingered, carried back and forth on the still air like that sickening crack, like that scream. Closing my eyes, I surrender to it all, allowing myself at last to be transported back to that moment...

Counting slowly in my head. Tommy's footsteps had faded, he was out of my reach. A few stolen seconds of peace, the icy breeze ruffling my hair, the birds singing softly, sleepily, and I relished the stillness, the peace, thinking nothing could possibly go wrong. Eleven, twelve, thirteen... The silence was split in half by a sound like the report of a shotgun. And I knew, I knew what had happened before I opened my eyes. Somewhere, near the water's edge, a woman screamed, a banshee-wail which should have come from my own lips, but I was numb, cold, rigid with terror, desperately grasping at the one belief that could keep me sane: this isn't happening, this could've have happened to me, not Tommy...

I kept my eyes tight closed, and pushed my fingers into my ears so I couldn't hear the growing commotion on the lake-shore, like a child believing that if I shut my eyes and pretended hard enough, everything would be alright. But I had to see, had to know that Tommy was safe, that all my fears were groundless and that he was running up the bank to fling his arms round me and reassure me with kisses. And so, reluctantly, I opened my eyes again...

There was a hole in the ice, jagged and gaping, and the truth of what had happened was just too huge and awful for me to grasp. Surely the gathering crowd couldn't be shouting about my boy; surely all those worried faces couldn't be looking for him? But I understood better than I wanted to believe, and my legs started running before I could hold myself back as a choked cry escaped my lips, running, running towards the lake...

Too late. I'm at the shore of the lake, looking out over the ice that seems so stable here, and thins to a mere film in the centre. At least there is no-one here now to see the tears in my eyes, to try and comfort me. There had been a crowd by the time I reached this spot on that day, all pushing and shoving, trying to get a glimpse of the action, like people who slow down to gawk at a car-crash. No-one even noticed me at first as I began to weave my way through them, my lips parted in a low, terrible moan, my eyes too dry, too numb for tears. It was only as I drew close to the commotion at the water's edge that someone blocked my path. Wide brown eyes, now so familiar to me, looked into mine with that fearful sympathy that is the first warning of horrors to come.
"Are you the mother?" came a voice, the tone telling me it needed no answer, the look of compassion in those eyes, eyes that I could sink in forever if I ever allowed myself to.
But I wouldn't stop moving towards the water's edge. I had to see. More voices surrounded me. A hand gripped my arm, holding me back. Stop her, lead her away, don't let her see what they're dragging out of the lake...

Too late. My eyes had already found what was left of my son. That stiff, bluish, contorted thing that lay glassy-eyed in a pool of dirty water, golden hair matted with leathery weeds, tiny hand outstretched in a pleading gesture as someone tried in vain to restore life to the little creature. Not real, the way he stared vacantly at nothing with a pale half-smile on his bloodless face. Not my Tommy. Please. I tried to go to him, but a man held me back as the crowd merged and covered the scene from view. Then comforting lies; there's still time, there still might be some life left in that stiff little body, there might be something that the doctors can do. I knew they were lying. It was too late. And at last, when it became clear that there was no way the ambulance would get there in time, the final lie: that he'd died peacefully, that it hadn't been painful, that it wasn't my fault, that I shouldn't blame myself. My brown-eyed friend shed a tear that just wouldn't come to my eyes as he led me further away, as he made me sit down and put a consoling arm around my shoulder. Nothing more anyone could do.

It seemed years passed before they let me see the body again. The crowd had not dispersed, but swept around the scene like carrion birds, watching a paramedic making the finishing touches as the rest of the ambulance crew stood uselessly by. They'd managed to twist the grotesquely contorted limbs into a semblance of peace, and even brushed the clinging weeds out of the golden hair, but it still wasn't my Tommy, that empty shell lain out with tiny hands clasped on its breast, its eyes now closed as if in a gentle sleep. It wasn't real. I approached it nonetheless, and kissed its clammy forehead as if in blessing, then watched as it was lifted into the ambulance and driven away. There was something faintly repulsive in the way it had seemed so calm, so softly at ease as it lay on the hard ground. Not my Tommy, not my son.

Finally the crowd began to disperse, giving me looks of sympathy before going about their business. My brown-eyed friend lingered at a respectful distance, leaving me to sit in silence, staring out at the dark, cold mouth in the lake that had swallowed my son and spewed out that twisted horror. Surely it couldn't be true, he couldn't really be lost to me? Surely if I waited long enough he would get tired of hiding and come running out to find me instead? I waited and waited, oblivious to the cold, expecting every moment to hear his footsteps running towards me and feel his arms around my neck. I waited for hours, but still he did not come, and after a while the light began to fade. The stranger, who I realised must have waited with me all that time, reached out a hand to me then, and I took it, allowing myself to be led, cold and stiff and exhausted, back to my empty house.

Even now, a year later, it is hard to believe that he's really gone. Senseless, that such a sweet child should be so alive and then stolen away so suddenly. There is no way to make it right. But it is over, past, even if the pain of it hits me sometimes like a blow in the face and leaves me gasping for air, clawing at nothing. He is gone, and I must carry on living. Best now just to lay it to rest for another year, like the flowers I've brought to lay at the side of the lake. Say one last prayer in mourning for the child I lost, then lay the pain to rest.

Tentatively I approach the water's edge, flowers in hand, so many memories, ready to let go and return to James and the new life I've built for myself out of the ashes. It's what Tommy would want, I tell myself. He always loved to see me smile. Bending down, I place the flowers right on the very lip of the lake, where they laid out his body, where the crowd trailed past in respectful silence. I watch my reflection moving in the ice, blurred and unidentifiable in the frozen mist, seemingly moving of its own volition. It almost makes me smile, the way the ice distorts everything: my face, the bare branches of trees above my head, the swoop of birds in the fathomless grey sky. As if it had some magic of its own.

As I watch, a shape seems to form in the grey-blue world under the ice. At first I assume it is only my reflection, brought to the foreground by a trick of the light. But the shape begins to move while I remain motionless, rising, growing more distinct as it nears the sheet of ice. Panic rises in me, thick in my throat as I watch, unable to look away. There is something there, under the ice, something rising with deliberate, menacing grace, and despite my efforts I cannot make it out. I want to run suddenly, but I can't move, fascination rooting me to the spot like the sudden paralysis of a nightmare. And as I watch, the shape becomes clearer, features emerging from the greenish gloom, though the detail is maddeningly vague through the ice. I lean closer, trying to make it out, and suddenly find myself looking into sapphire eyes that are all too familiar. Jumping back, my heart skipping through my veins, I struggle hard to keep myself sane. I know the face looking up at me, the face pressed to the ice with a bemused half-smile, the face that I last saw painted and peaceful and utterly lost to me. No, God no. This isn't happening.

But I can't look away, though a dark haze gathers at the edge of my vision and I feel myself shaking, feel every part of me electrified, longing to run. Those eyes are so cold, full of accusations for which I don't have any answers: why did you take so long to find me, mummy? I thought you'd forgotten about me. I've been waiting for you for ages... I catch a reprimanding glint in eyes that I know cannot really be there looking up at me, and I know I am guilty, and I am afraid. A scream rises in my throat, but it is strangled by fear as that icy gaze holds me fast. Tommy!

A mischievous smile, a rush of colour that could almost be his waterlogged coat, his little hand beckoning for me to follow, and the shape is gone, drifting rapidly away from the shore. No, please, don't let this be real, don't let this be happening. But I know I have no choice as I take a hesitant step forward, as I tiptoe down onto the frozen surface of the lake. It seems the ice is full of shadows now, wheeling and dancing beneath my feet, watching me gleefully, urging me on. In a trance I follow their whirling lead, slowly at first, testing my footing, shuddering at the thought of falling through the thin crust into their dank arms below. But their dance grows more frantic, forcing me to go faster, just barely managing to keep my balance as I struggle to keep up with their rushing advance. It seems I can hear their voices, just on the cusp of hearing, whispering of the horrors that happened to them years ago. Snatches of music seem to echo in my ears, music for the lost ones, a waltz for the forgotten who never fade away. And they have Tommy, hidden away for all this time, waiting for me to come and find him again. He must be so cold under there, fingers pressed to the ice as he watches the world from his hiding place. So very cold...

Snow has begun to fall, each tentative snowflake spiralling down to rest on the ice all around me. Something soothing and faintly eerie in its slow descent, in the way it entangles itself in my hair, slowly covering it like a delicate shroud. The wind is bitter and biting out here, striding over the lake unimpeded by trees, but I'm beyond shivering. Have to keep going, have to reach the centre. Tommy's waiting for me. The shadows seem nearer now, and their dance is slowing to a sedate minuet as the sense of urgency drains from their movements. Every so often one will pause, watching me with an expectant air before returning to the great writhing mass. The shore seems so far away, lost in that world I left behind, when I thought Tommy was lost to me and I had nothing left. I know better now. Won't be long before I surprise him in his secret place, before I go down and take him in my arms and just hold him, hold him close until all the pain of believing I'd lost him has been dissolved and drained away. I'll never leave him alone again, never close my eyes, never let go of his little hand. We'll be safe together, him and me, away from the pain and the lies and the winter world of broken promises. Safe.

The ice is so thin here, water has begun to spill over its surface, washing it clean so it gleams like crystal in the grey light. I have reached the centre of the lake. Looking down, I search the twisting chaos of shadows for his face, knowing he must be there, and smile as my gaze meets his. Those eyes again, unfathomable, glinting with mischief as they hold me in their spell. Then the ice begins to crack...

The perfect hiding-place. Tommy was right. The world looks so different now, warped by our frozen window and the murky water that surrounds us. His little hand holds mine tightly, cold, so cold it makes me hold him closer. How the shadow-people stare, envious that we should be so happy. But it is peaceful here; only the melancholy lapping of water on ice disturbs the silence with its delicate music. We drift with the current as the shadows twist and stir the waving weeds, safe, together. James will understand why I'm not coming home. Perhaps he'll come looking, warm brown eyes full of concern as he searches all the usual places and finds nothing. It's a shame I never explained to him that it was all just a game, a game of hide-and-seek. I hope he knows how to play. I hope he sees our smiling faces, and understands that there never was anything to be afraid of after all. I hope he decides to join us here. I want to share all this with him, our sanctuary, our hidden vantage, our secret place, under the ice...

Run Away

Reject
Unnecessary
Neuroses

And
Worry
About
Yourself

Saint of the Impossible

I want to be a saint,
A saint of generosity.

It's all about knowing how to give,
To give freely of yourself, offer comfort until it hurts,
And never ask for returns.

I want to be a saint,
A saint of melancholy.

It's all about knowing how to hurt,
To help people cry when they need to
And give them the peace of a tear well shed.

I want to be a saint,
A saint in absentia

It's all about knowing how to retreat,
To retreat with dignity at the end of an evening
And put myself back in my box until I'm needed again.

I watch you with her,
I see you smile,
And know my work is done:

I am a saint of the impossible.