“Ghosts”: Five Poems by Conor Scruton

 

Pareidolia

In summer we make stories for the ungrowing seasons,
the sweatspeckled back of the blue sky

made real in its telling,
each winter to come.

Some of what we know—
we can only make out in contrast.

I cannot give you much
but another season’s worth of words,

this basket I hold to my stomach,
these petals I take from my tongue

and place on yours, over and over.
There’s something that happens when men

look for ghosts, with their metal recorders, how
our minds make forms out of senseless

objects, sounds. The same as we see
in clouds, dogs with rabbit ears,

a onceloved face in the shifting fire,
a voice on switching radio signals

matched with the dead girl’s,
stillvoiced haunting of the house.

Of all our names, what must we give
the pattern that’s been broken—

 

Ghost Sings a Hymn

I don’t know the first time I fell in love with a ghost.
In the first grade we were given time in class

to “create,” which I think meant “draw, quietly.”
When autumn came to Tennessee late,

when you could smell the cool wet woodburn
across the morning fields, of course I went to school

and drew ghosts, and wolves and demons—
a vague cosmology I felt moving on rivers

between gravestones and a weightless heaven.
It’s how I colored sense into the world around me.

 

I had been easily scared by movies and books,
and the dense dark of the forest outside our house,

the mysterious lantern lights a few miles off,
all the beast-lined wooded trails I knew

from the stories. All waiting, if you were to step out
of home, of safety, for a minute. I knew.

 

I knew what I wanted, though I didn’t know why
I wanted what scared me. I don’t remember falling

in love with ghosts any more than first falling in love
with boys—though both happened, and one day

I turned to find both visiting me, true as death,
inescapable the way people take haunted to mean.

 

My teacher passed back papers, with tight lips
and eyes turned elsewhere. She gave me bad grades,

for my visions not being “creative enough,”
which stuck in my memory less because I was upset

but more because I was confused, I think.

 

The church can be loud and unforgiving in that place.
Deeper too, the idea of what children should be

thinking about—softlit, painted pictures of lambs,
ghostwhite and untouched, the kneeling man

in the desert clearing, the light of the lord.

 

Belief that there is no world out there left
to be created. Only the souls floating through it,

the many tempting voices without. The tongues,
to men wholly illegible, whispering

sweet nothings between their wolf teeth.

 

Ghost Tries to Remember the Hymn’s Middle Voices

They all told me this, they said it will come        [building, knowing]
to the foxholes and cliff faces,

find you where you are
helpless.

All together, like cicadas, they spoke                    [in overtones, phasing]
leaving their skeletal wings

stuck to trees and eastfacing walls
each morning.

They saw me out into the desert,                          [in a mode most have forgotten] 
where I belonged.                                                         
As they slept
I’d lure the neighbor dogs out

and wonder if they could sense                             [very soft, almost whispered]
what was coming

as I bit the backs of their necks,
if they would whimper when I pawed at their ribs.

 

TV Exorcism

Everyone walks with their whispers
from room to room, as if spirit were a dust
that could be lifted from the walls,
dissipated and lost
with a wave or loud word.

What is the name
for the comfort of thinking you know exactly
what crouches in the corners?
The woman who lives in this place
cradles her husband’s hand so nicely,

her other thumb so used to finding
a Saint Benedict’s cross, to caress
the mindless tarnish in its grooves.
Finally the priest and cameramen
listen close to the emptiness, to make sure

they’ve left here only what they invite.
The recorders don’t pick up voices, anymore,
or misty figures in the doorways.
The man takes a slow step away from his wife,
lifts his shirt and undershirt

and exposes his soft back
just to see if there are any demon scratches
like those she found in bed one night,
though that had been before, before
she believed in possession.

 

Ghost Is Disturbed to Find the Walls Impermeable

People are starting to ask
about the moaning
in my walls, the secrets
so full of blood they talk.

The most rational answers
would be water
and pipes whispering
as they expand, draw back.

The building’s old after all,
and there’s no telling
who’s passed through it before,
with me. It should be simple

then, to shake that feeling,
of ghost lips
that came and whispered
hymns in your ear,

touched your unspilled cup,
the clamwet stillness,
what set you sweating
through your sheets.

 

 

Conor Scruton lives in Milwaukee, where they research and write about ghost stories and serve as a poetry editor for Cream City Review. Their work has appeared in CutBank, Puerto del Sol, Salamander, and other journals. Find them @conorscruton on Twitter.

Image: depositphotos.com

What’s HFR up to? Read our current issue, submit, or write for Heavy Feather.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.