Ghosts crowd
my shoulder
hover
in the periphery
never bearing
direct glance
or inquiry.
They offer
no reproaches, express
no regrets, provide
no comfort, promise
no hope,
and,
despite the platters
of oranges and chocolates,
I offer,
the stories I tell,
all our shared memories,
whatever I can think of
to coax them to stay,
they never do.
At the slightest provocation,
the most innocent question
-- Where have you been? --
the most heartfelt declaration
-- I have missed you --
they disappear,
retract instantaneously
into the dark ether, far, far away,
into a place I do not understand.
Sometimes in dreams
they appear,
shimmery figures
in aluminum lawn chairs
set in faded green yards
near distant clapboard-sided homes,
and wave.
Hello?
Goodbye?
I never can tell.
Thursday, October 08, 2009
Ghosts
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11 comments:
I like the rhymes that dart in and out, like your shimmery ghosts, and the repetitions. I'm curious if the narrator is entirely fictive or bears any connection to the poet. The hello/goodbye quandary at poem's end reminded me of Stevie Smith's poem "Not Waving But Drowning."
Are these the folks who crowd in, to divert attention away from Sunday evening lesson planning? I suspect you may be much too sensible and organized for such weekend folly.
murat: This one, like most of my others, is part fiction, part reality. The waving figures came straight from a dream -- I'd forgotten Stevie Smith's poem until you mentioned it -- as did the poem itself, intact with internal rhymes and all. You think I could make this stuff up if I had to think about it?
As for the ghosts, I didn't want to be too specific, so other people could imagine whatever they like. Maybe that didn't work?
Organized? Hardly. But my fear of improvisation -- my idea of hell is standing in front of the room with no idea what do and someone like Robin Williams shouting at me to "Say anything! Just say anything!" -- does mean that I tend to plan each minute... often late on Sunday nights.
oooh shivers went down my spine when I read that..
I loved it.
Fabulous.
you've tickled my imagination with all kinds of funny images.
part reality you say? hmm I'd not like ghosts hovering my shoulders!
Wonderful.
julie: Glad you enjoyed the chills!
ellen: These ghosts are pretty benign, but they do have an unsettling way of showing up at unpredictable moments.
betsy, greg: Fabulous and wonderful sound pretty good -- thanks!
This is beautiful, Anno. I know I have my ghosts that dart in and out. This really strikes a chord.
anno,
I just saw your post at Becca's. I loved what you said about your words. One struck me especially - cerulean. I am in the process of doing a blog with a just-finished poem where I use cerulean. Such a coincidence.
I had someone quote that Stevie Smith poem to me once, and it gave me a strange feeling. I never knew the poet - only the words. I'm glad to have found it. Powerful, and slightly distressing.
I need to go now, and read more of your poetry!
This piece impressed the dickens out of me. I’m no poet, just a word-messer-arounder, one who likes it when words are stacked just right like this. I love the true message here. I’ve come to suspect that staying until the moment you realize they’re there is the entirety of their “job description.” And in turn I suspect that it has to do with seeing if, or making sure that, we have one foot in the spiritual realm as a reminder from whence we came. Testing, one, two, three…OK, you pass. Have a good day! Seen you when you get back to the soul pool! ;-)
missalister
jeanie: Me, too. I seem to be feeling mine more these days as well.
shoreacres: Any chance we'll get to see that poem?
alister: I hope you're right, because otherwise it's just a little unnerving.
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