GHOSTS
Stevie Dufyn, 2022
Are there ghosts in this house? a young carer asked.
Yes, I replied, there are ghosts. Oh yes, there are ghosts.
Yes, I replied, there are ghosts. Oh yes, there are ghosts.
Of the diseased, who died in pain, too early.
Of might-have-been children, parents of grandchildren
Never born, remembered in memory, talked to as living.
Ghosts are not all dead but memories of loss.
People lost to us now who were important once.
Some may re-emerge, some lost for ever
Except in memory, photos on mental mantelpieces.
On my actual mantle photos of dead friends,.
And water-colour sailing boats, luggers,
Cards from an absent sailor friend .
Close by, mementos of parents, their relics of long lives.
People lost to us now who were important once.
Some may re-emerge, some lost for ever
Except in memory, photos on mental mantelpieces.
On my actual mantle photos of dead friends,.
And water-colour sailing boats, luggers,
Cards from an absent sailor friend .
Close by, mementos of parents, their relics of long lives.
A young carer asked, Are there ghosts in the house?
Yes, I replied, there are ghosts
After all these years, there are ghosts.
Ghosts not all dead. People fall out of our lives,
For reasons neither remembers, the busyness of lives,
Sleights that should have been repaired,
Some for offences hard to forget, where ghosts are unforgiving.
Ghosts fill our nights with sadness, pleasure, fear and regret,
With guilt if we have offended or caused pain
And anger where pain was caused to us.
A ghost is a hole whose emptiness needs memories.
I too am a ghost, a hole in another’s life, an unresolved trauma,
Hoping to communicate still but hearing only silence,
Wanting to apologise, or hoping for an apology,
But finding it is too late.
Life is a communion of ghosts, unwilling or unable to cohabit,
Unable to mend what was broken.
In a world of easy communication, where folks don’t stay hidden,
We choose to hide, to remain ghosts to each other.
Memories of family and friends now gone, colleagues, influencers,
Some I never met – authors, musicians, artists, unaware of my existence
And unaware of the debt I owe them. Some I helped, I think,
They will know, and may remember.
Ghosts mix with the living, maintain relationships,
Refresh memories. Ghosts of the dead live on in us.
Ghosts of the living can be found again, as can I,
To rekindle what was once broken.
A young carer asked, Are there ghosts in the house?
Yes, I replied, there are ghosts. Oh yes, there are ghosts.
Yes, I replied, there are ghosts
After all these years, there are ghosts.
Ghosts not all dead. People fall out of our lives,
For reasons neither remembers, the busyness of lives,
Sleights that should have been repaired,
Some for offences hard to forget, where ghosts are unforgiving.
Ghosts fill our nights with sadness, pleasure, fear and regret,
With guilt if we have offended or caused pain
And anger where pain was caused to us.
A ghost is a hole whose emptiness needs memories.
I too am a ghost, a hole in another’s life, an unresolved trauma,
Hoping to communicate still but hearing only silence,
Wanting to apologise, or hoping for an apology,
But finding it is too late.
Life is a communion of ghosts, unwilling or unable to cohabit,
Unable to mend what was broken.
In a world of easy communication, where folks don’t stay hidden,
We choose to hide, to remain ghosts to each other.
Memories of family and friends now gone, colleagues, influencers,
Some I never met – authors, musicians, artists, unaware of my existence
And unaware of the debt I owe them. Some I helped, I think,
They will know, and may remember.
Ghosts mix with the living, maintain relationships,
Refresh memories. Ghosts of the dead live on in us.
Ghosts of the living can be found again, as can I,
To rekindle what was once broken.
A young carer asked, Are there ghosts in the house?
Yes, I replied, there are ghosts. Oh yes, there are ghosts.
© Stevie Dufyn (pen-name for Stephen Bigger), 8.November 2022.
No comments:
Post a Comment