When Night Falls

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

Read More

And The Sirens Sweetly Sing

This week's theme is Noises in the Night -  and so here is an aural tapestry that collates the heard experiences of many different Blackpool nights into one awful archetype. The setting is Central Drive, which is within earshot of where I live. Also close by is the ambulance despatch centre and the sirens of the poem belong to the emergency vehicles that provide a fairly constant soundtrack to a typical Blackpool night.

I read the poem as a work in progress at the open mic night in St Annes last night and have made a couple of judicious changes to it as a result. See what you think...

And The Sirens Sweetly Sing 

Early evening light is leaking

out of wintry Blackpool skies;

this is Central Drive preparing

for the assault which will arrive

in the bleakest hours of darkness.

On the corner stands the hashman

with his pockets full of wares,

tabs and twists to suit all comers.

Surreptitious stare the housewives

hurrying home with bingo winnings,

when the sirens start to sing. 

Cats inhabit undercarland

staring wise into the night,

keeping counsel, keeping foxwatch.

As the stars wheel cross the heavens,

hear the druggies spit and swear

at throwing-out and throwing-up time.

Rowdy revellers stagger past,

cursing as they slip on dogshit,

shouting into mobile phones

as if we need to share their dramas,

while the sirens sweetly sing. 

Midnight pissers water lamp-posts,

roosting gulls look unconcerned,

branches dance in manic patterns

weaving wavering shadow shows

choreographed by chilling wind.

Some lovers moan on squeaky bedsprings,

passion filtering through the blinds,

while others consummate in doorways

coupling like there’s no tomorrow,

steamy breath and muffled cries

rise as the sirens sweetly sing. 

Weeds grow rampant in the gutters,

eerie flowerings of the night;

on the pavement someone mutters

‘Oh god help me, I am bleeding.’

There is no one else in sight.

A lonely bird begins to warble,

ushers in another day;

frozen trails on Central Drive,

the evidence of last night’s traffic

glinting in the pre-dawn half-light

as the sirens fade away.

 

Thanks for reading. Have a good week, S :-)

Read More

Noises in the night

As dusk falls there is always a shift change of creatures. Day-walkers settle down to sleep and nocturnal beasts emerge for their nightly patrols. The atmosphere changes, leaving the hustle and bustle, amplifying smaller noises which would go normally go unnoticed. Unless you work nights, these sounds are unfamiliar, leading to the imagination running wild. It is where our best horror, thriller and ghost stories come from. I've never been into horror stories/movies, I'm too much of a scaredy cat for that sort of thing, but I can just about manage a good thriller. 

This weeks' theme took me back to my childhood, when the odd occasion arose where I couldn't sleep or woke in the night and heard those chilling creaks and cracks. The hair would stand on the back of my neck, fear would engulf me and I would hide beneath the sheets thinking that I would be safe under there. Really? I mean, how much protection could blankets really offer if you were going to be attacked in your bed? Silly isn't it? Our imagination can sometimes be our worst enemy.

I have resurrected an old poem this week which has been edited since first being written.


Harken to the night:

Cold beads of sweat
crawl across my brow.
Senses heightened,
breath shallow and rapid.
Every shadow,
every creak,
amplified, sinister,
creeping closer.
Moonlight streaks
through curtain chinks,
casting silver searchlights,
making the dark
inkier still.
Shadows camouflaged,
lurking unseen
'til slightest movement
betrays their position.
Eyes frantically stare
attempting to see
beyond the blanket
of deepest black.
A floorboard cracks,
closer than before.
Heart hammering
trying to escape
the burdensome confines
of its cage.
Gut wrenching,
seemingly to wring
other organs out,
pushing through the skin.
Skin pricking
like a million needles,
hair standing
at the nape of my neck.
Coldest fear
claws at my brain,
gnawing at common sense
for an early breakfast.


Thanks for reading.  ;-) x

P.S. Don't forget to join the Lancashire Dead Good Poets' tonight at Silantro Cafe, Wood St, St Annes, for our Open Mic night. There's no theme for this one, so why not come and share some of your poetry, or if your not feeling that brave, you are always welcome to come and listen to others. It begins at 6pm. Don't miss it!  ;-)

Read More