{"id":16130,"date":"2014-10-31T12:39:32","date_gmt":"2014-10-31T16:39:32","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/?p=16130"},"modified":"2014-10-31T12:44:43","modified_gmt":"2014-10-31T16:44:43","slug":"o-ghosts","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/2014\/10\/o-ghosts\/","title":{"rendered":"O Ghosts"},"content":{"rendered":"

<\/a>\"'You<\/a><\/p>\n

[Image: “You Don’t Stumble on Ghosts,” a so-called “newspaper blackout poem” by user mawstools (Meri Aaron Walker) on Flickr<\/a>. (Click to enlarge.) Used under a Creative Commons license. For more information, see the note at the foot of this post<\/a>.]<\/em><\/p>\n

From whiskey river<\/em><\/a> (italicized portion):<\/p>\n

Spirit Birds<\/strong><\/p>\n

The spirit world the negative of this one,
\nsoft outlines of soft whites against soft darks,
\nsomeone crossing Broadway at Cathedral, walking
\ntoward the god taking the picture, but now,
\ninside the camera, suddenly still. Or the spirit
\nworld the detail through the window, manifest
\nif stared at long enough, the shapes of this
\nor that, the lights left on, the lights turned off,
\nthe spirits under arcs of sycamores the gray-gold
\nmists of migratory birds and spotted leaves recognize.<\/p>\n

Autumnal evening chill, knife-edges of the avenues,<\/em>
\nwind kicking up newspaper off the street,<\/em>
\nthose ghost peripheral moments you catch yourself<\/em>
\nbeside yourself going down a stair or through<\/em>
\na door — the spirit world surprising: those birds,<\/em>
\nfor instance, bursting from the trees and turning<\/em>
\ninto shadow, then nothing, like spirit birds<\/em>
\ncalled back to life from memory or a book,<\/em>
\nthose shadows in my hands I held, surprised.<\/em>
\nI found them interspersed among the posthumous pages<\/p>\n

of a friend, some hundreds of saved poems: dun
\nsparrows and a few lyrical wrens in photocopied
\nprofile perched in air, focused on an abstract
\nabrupt edge. Blurred, their natural color bled,
\nthey\u2019d passed from one world to another: the poems,
\ntoo, sung in the twilit middle of the night, loved,
\nhalf-typed, half-written-over, flawed, images
\nof images. He\u2019d kept them to forget them.
\nAnd every twenty pages, in xerox ash-and-frost,
\nGray Eastern, Gold Western, ranging across borders.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Stanley Plumly [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

…and<\/a>:<\/p>\n

I don’t believe that ghosts are “spirits of the dead” because I don’t believe in death. In the multiverse, once you’re possible, you exist. And once you exist, you exist forever one way or another. Besides, death is the absence of life, and the ghosts I’ve met are very much alive.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Paul F. Eno [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

Not from whiskey river<\/em>:<\/p>\n

Ghosts<\/strong><\/p>\n

It’s Mr. Brown looking much better
\nThan he did in the morgue.
\nHe’s brought me a huge carp
\nIn a bloodstained newspaper.
\nWhat an odd visit.
\nI haven’t thought of him in years.<\/p>\n

Linda is with him and so is Sue.
\nTwo pale and elegant fading memories
\nHolding each other by the hand.
\nEven their lipstick is fresh
\nDespite all the scientific proofs
\nTo the contrary.<\/p>\n

Is Linda going to cook the fish?
\nShe turns and gazes in the direction
\nOf the kitchen while Sue
\nContinues to watch me mournfully.
\nI don’t believe any of it,
\nAnd still I’m scared stiff.<\/p>\n

I know of no way to respond,
\nSo I do nothing.
\nThe windows are open. The air’s thick
\nWith the scent of magnolias.
\nDrops of evening rain are dripping
\nFrom the dark and heavy leaves.
\nI take a deep breath; I close my eyes.<\/p>\n

Dear specters, I don’t even believe
\nYou are here, so how is it
\nYou’re making me comprehend
\nThings I would rather not know just yet?<\/p>\n

It’s the way you stare past me
\nAt what must already be my own ghost,
\nBefore taking your leave,
\nAs unexpectedly as you came in,
\nWithout one of us breaking the silence.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Charles Simic [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

…and:<\/p>\n

The [philosopher, Jesuit priest, and] paleontologist Teilhard [de Chardin] carried a notebook in which he had written, among other things, a morning prayer: “Be pleased yet once again to come down and breathe a soul into the newly formed, fragile film of matter with which this day the world is to be freshly clothed.” The realm of loose spirit never interested Teilhard. He did not believe in it. He never bought the view that the world was illusion and spirit alone was real. He had written in his notebook from a folding stool in the desert of the Ordos<\/span>, “There are only beings, everywhere.”<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Annie Dillard [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

…and:<\/p>\n

An ICF was an Imaginary Childhood Friend, those pretend friends one sometimes has when a child. Contrary to popular belief, they don’t go away when no longer required; they simply wander the earth until their host dies. They share common DNA with fictional people like the Wingco in that they are constructs of the human mind — living stories, if you like. Because of this they are quite visible to fictional people and, on occasion, to us as something normally dismissed as “ghosts” or “a trick of the light.”<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Jasper Fforde [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

…and:<\/p>\n

Daniel<\/strong><\/p>\n

On the day we moved in, the pings, bumps, and snaps
\nWere scary, it’s true, but probably normal;
\nA house accepting new patterns of weight
\nWith protest, the way no conviction goes gently.
\nWe laughed a little, and called it “our spirit.”<\/p>\n

Later that night, when the power conked out
\nAnd the kids were crying, the ghost got a name,
\n“Daniel,” and a history of whispered exploits,
\nAll of them harmless, like nursery rhymes,
\nOr like the little fibs we tell ourselves
\nTo explain why this or that has led to suffering.<\/p>\n

Pretty soon, we were using him for everything.
\nWhen the Christmas tree fell, it was “Daniel”;
\nWhen my wife lost her ring, it was “Daniel”;
\nWhen the kids forgot to feed the goldfish
\nAnd it turned up dead, its eyes silvered over
\nLike water shadowed under sheets of ice,<\/p>\n

Well, that became Daniel too, which was curious;
\nAnd pauses me now as I make the long walk
\nDown the hall to the bathroom in darkness,
\nAnd hear, in soft concert, the sound of my footfalls
\nAnswered at once by my children’s voices<\/p>\n

Still calling to Daniel behind their door.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(David Orr [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

<\/a>_________________<\/p>\n

About the image:<\/strong> I’d never heard of newspaper blackout poems before finding this image. They’re apparently a “thing,” invented by Austin Kleon (who has published a book of and maintains a blog devoted to them). For a reasonable introduction to the idea, including links to Kleon’s work, see this post at bitrebels.com<\/a>. In the case of the image above, the resulting found poem (“You Don’t Stumble on Ghosts”) reads:<\/p>\n

You don’t stumble on ghosts
\nscratching haiku into business cards.<\/p>\n

Instead, you get lost among parishioners
\ndrinking at the town bar.<\/p>\n

You discover mutually devoted twins,
\nthen flee again.<\/p>\n

People are not haunted by ghosts
\nin search of beautiful bridges to leap off,
\ndead children, usually beautiful memories.<\/p>\n

Worse things than monsters populate this region:
\nIndian casinos, retail outlets and large yellow hissing
\nstreet-cleaners, people driven mad by disease,
\nmarriage, impulsive romantic partners.<\/p>\n

Who hasn’t been stained with a sense of dislocation,
\ndesire and a thousand-page book describing everything
\nyou may not like?<\/p>\n

Please enjoy yourselves while you can!<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

[back to top<\/a>]<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

[Image: “You Don’t Stumble on Ghosts,” a so-called “newspaper blackout poem” by user mawstools (Meri Aaron Walker) on Flickr. (Click to enlarge.) Used under a Creative Commons license. For more information, see the note at the foot of this post.] From whiskey river (italicized portion): Spirit Birds The spirit world the negative of this one, […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_active":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_note":"","_monsterinsights_sitenote_category":0,"_genesis_hide_title":false,"_genesis_hide_breadcrumbs":false,"_genesis_hide_singular_image":false,"_genesis_hide_footer_widgets":false,"_genesis_custom_body_class":"","_genesis_custom_post_class":"","_genesis_layout":"","h5ap_radio_sources":[],"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"activitypub_content_warning":"","activitypub_content_visibility":"","activitypub_max_image_attachments":3,"activitypub_interaction_policy_quote":"anyone","activitypub_status":"","footnotes":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":false,"jetpack_social_options":{"image_generator_settings":{"template":"highway","default_image_id":0,"font":"","enabled":false},"version":2}},"categories":[247,1393,250,5,36,251,3459],"tags":[295,1389,1819,1826,3610,3910,3911,3912,3913,3914,3915],"class_list":{"0":"post-16130","1":"post","2":"type-post","3":"status-publish","4":"format-standard","6":"category-ruminations","7":"category-whiskey-river-runningaftermyhat","8":"category-art","9":"category-06_writing","10":"category-reading","11":"category-poetry-writing_cat","12":"category-horror-06_writing","13":"tag-annie-dillard","14":"tag-ghosts","15":"tag-jasper-fforde","16":"tag-david-orr","17":"tag-charles-simic","18":"tag-stanley-plumly","19":"tag-paul-f-eno","20":"tag-austin-kleon","21":"tag-newspaper-blackout-poems","22":"tag-meri-aaron-walker","23":"tag-found-poetry","24":"entry"},"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p6kZSG-4ca","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_likes_enabled":true,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/16130","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=16130"}],"version-history":[{"count":7,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/16130\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":16137,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/16130\/revisions\/16137"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=16130"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=16130"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=16130"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}