One
of the most interesting exhibitions at Blackpool Grundy Art Gallery of recent
times was the Haunted House experience, which climaxed in an evening of poetry
and short stories courtesy of the Dead Good Poets – the word Dead never being so
apt.
As
one of the performers, it was uncanny reciting a ghost story in an atmospheric
space itself reputed to be haunted by an artist past; one whose very paintings
lined the walls like windows into a darker world. A shadow existence we cannot
consciously see, yet there is the feeling it is watching us.
Funny
old world when you think about it. We have split the atom, landed on the moon,
and mapped the universe. Yet, there is nothing guaranteed to instil fear than
the good old fashioned thing that goes bump in the night. Because, of course, we
know not what that thing is. And the most primal of instincts is to retreat from
that we cannot rationalise.
One
of the most intriguing speculations regarding noises in the night is one I heard
offered in the classic TV serial Quatermass and the Pit. When the sceptical
Professor Quatermass finds his scientific logic challenged by a series of
apparitions and poltergeist events, he reasons
“…surely
it’s possible for…for ghosts, let’s use the word… to be phenomena that were
badly observed and wrongly interpreted.
With
that in mind, I conceived the following verses.
When
Night Falls
For
Living
When
night falls
Air
breaths silently
Gravitating
cold
When
night falls
The
knocking begins
Dowsing
for fear
When
night falls
It
takes my name
And
whispers it back
Sometimes
she appears
Then
fades away
Like
breath on a mirror
Intruder
mine
Be
gone from me
Out
vile spectre
For
Dead
When
night falls
I
walk alone
Seeking
consort
When
night falls
I
send words
That
don’t reach him
When
night falls
My
fingers seek his
But
never connect
Oh,
to touch
The
radiance of flesh
A
rhythm of pulse
Why
wish me away?
Why
does he resent?
Can’t
we be friends?
Barry McCann
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