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I still remember reading when I was very young the poem "Antigonish" by William Hughes Mearns. It was printed in some anthology, and it scared me.
Yesterday, upon the stair,
I met a man who wasn't there
He wasn't there again today
I wish, I wish he'd go away...
When I came home last night at three
The man was waiting there for me
But when I looked around the hall
I couldn't see him there at all!
Go away, go away, don't you come back any more!
Go away, go away, and please don't slam the door...
That was an early encounter with a poetry ghost. Ghosts scared but also fascinated me, as they do for most kids, and many adults. They also have interested some poets. I found a group of poems about ghosts at poets.org. I wrote a ghost poem that grew into a piece of flash fiction.
"The Poor Ghost" by Christina Georgina Rossetti is a poem that depicts a dialogue between a man and the ghost of his lover.
"The Haunted Oak" by Paul Laurence Dunbar has a tree that bears witness to and is haunted by the lynching of an innocent man
"Unbidden" by Rae Armantrout explores the idea of ghosts swarming and speaking as one, each leaving something undone.
Do you need to believe in ghosts to write about them? Emily Berry's ghost poem begins with this epigraph: "A statistician would say: of all the millions of ghost stories ever told, what percentage would have to be true for ghosts to exist? The answer is that only one story would have to be true."
Henrik Ibsen wrote in his play Ghosts: "I almost think we're all of us Ghosts ... It's not only what we have invited from our father and mother that walks in us. It's all sorts of dead ideas, and lifeless old beliefs, and so forth. They have no vitality, but they cling to us all the same, and we can't get rid of them. Whenever I take up a newspaper, I seem to see Ghosts gliding between the lines. There must be Ghosts all the country over, as thick as the sand of the sea. And then we are, one and all, so pitifully afraid of the light."
But before you start your own ghost poem, consider that not all ghosts are spectral visions. Some are not even nouns. It can be a trace or suggestion of something: "The ghost of a smile played on her lips". The ghost can be a persistent, unsettling presence or memory in the mind: "His past mistakes still ghosted him". Someone living can be a shadow or semblance of something -"He's just a ghost of his former self" now diminished in health, strength, or spirit. "He doesn't have a ghost of a chance" means only a faint chance or possibility:
And our newest usage is as a verb where it typically means to suddenly cut off all communication with someone without warning or explanation. For example, if you're texting someone and they abruptly stop responding, they might be said to have "ghosted" you.
It's often used in the context of dating or friendships, but it can apply to any situation where someone unexpectedly disappears, like a ghost.
Our May issue is full of ghosts in various forms and visions.
Rae Armantrout was born in Vallejo, California, in 1947, and was part of the first generation of Language poets on the West Coast. She is the author of numerous books of poetry, including Wobble (2018), which was a finalist for the National Book Award, and Partly: New and Selected Poems, 2001–2015. She is a professor emerita at the University of California, San Diego, where she has taught writing for almost twenty years.
GHOST
If I leave a mark here, a symbol, on this wall, will you see it?
Will you recognize it as mine? Will you remember me?
If I plant a small tree, will you think of me when the leaves green and later die?
Will you let me walk with you down this old street where we used to walk and dream?
Will you think of me when you hear that song? When I am gone..
When I am a ghost?
Iivo Sitterding
EL CAJON BLVD AND 30TH ST., NORTH PARK, SAN DIEGO
An empty bus rolls past empty storefronts
delivering dust to the curb instead of
old people laden with packages and canes.
The strength of fate overpowered their calm,
wistful memories before those too became ghosts.
Rob Friedman
TO BRUSH AGAINST THE VEIL
I am drawn to the supernatural at night.
perhaps for proof of something beyond
sitting by a window for an uncommon sight.
Not reunion with one known, now departed,
seeking what hides from us in the light,
a shimmer, a sound, a delicate movement,
in those minutes before temporary sleep.
Grandmother told me spirits have wisdom
unknown to us, that they might whisper,
in their pull to again belong, to children.
A dangerous meeting I should avoid,
but I chose to encourage a ghostly sister
to come forward and share my bed,
a wish worthy of a Jung or Freud.
That there was more to life than the ordinary,
that I might brush against that layered veil
and glimpse - what? It is still unknown.
Lily Hana Hayashi
GHOST
I do believe in spooks,
I do, I do, I do!
-- Cowardly Lion, The Wizard of Oz
When my bedroom lamp
flashes like the fireflies
that flit about my yard at dusk
and an unsigned card arrives in the mail
on the seventh day of the seventh month
without a stamp or return address
and my grandfather clock,
usually mute as a zoo giraffe,
chimes seven times on the date I was wed
I greet the ghost of my husband, dead
for seven years, and savor the taste
of love that will never pass away.
Susan Spaeth Cherry
DIA DE LOS MUERTOS VISITORS
Who are those who visit around the hour of the wolf? We know
the ones who know us better than we know ourselves. They come at
random, spaced out as we have the need. And then our eyes locked
with a floating wisp or flutter that causes a tingle along the spine. The
dishes set in the cupboard rattle or eject a prize saucer, the one we
used for guests. This has to be a clear sign about the posthumous
demotion these spirits feel at our table. They want to sit and talk.
And I think each is a Second-Coming of Christ, Harrowing Hell,
reaching out by an open hand to haul us to see him now. Just
as seeing is more than opening our eyes. Seeing is letting go.
I remember that strange day I bumped into the retired fire-
man, coughing from his scorched lungs, who lived in the
apartment below, who laughed as he told us he heard
our old bed loudly take a cakewalk across the pine
floor of our bedroom. That was the long week-end
we had been away, touring the haunted mansions
along the banks of the Hudson. And so long ago,
just before you left to join forever our visitors.
Royal Rhodes
ECHO, STILL CALLING "FAREWELL" TO NARCISSUS
You sprained your ankle in the woods
of the shoot, the first project of a graduate
film career. I only know from the online post
I promised myself I would not look for, an investigator
who only returns with bad news in some cursed
Stephen King town, though I am less certain what
I hope to discover. Some semblance of sadness,
I suppose: my lingering pain allowable if reciprocated.
You were there the summer I sprained my own,
came over to quell the nagging landlord
demanding proof of carpet pads under each table leg
and chair one week after handing over the keys.
You, the photographer, laid with the precision
of a mechanic beneath an undercarriage, the Android
camera and its bicker-inciting price tag finally put
to good use in capturing the slivers of felt between
the floorboards and my curbside furniture finds.
Yesterday, I sprained my ankle again, the other foot
now staking a claim. It popped spontaneously
on a hike, like my neighbor’s premature fireworks
ignited a month before the Fourth, startling my cat
who raced down the hall, unsure what she was running from,
or to. I did not disclose the injury to my friends until we got
back to the car. I walked the miles silent, limping, knowing
they would insist we turn around immediately, would
demand a medevac despite firm protest, and I needed
to reach the lookout spot, its tangible payoff.
If we were still speaking, I wonder what you would
text to break the news. “Call me Aria,” perhaps.
You loved a double entendre. Call me so I can share
the story. Call me by your name, our kindred injuries
abound. So when that ankle betrayed you, did it crack
in the syllables of my name? Or did you merely blame
the forest terrain, its slick coating of leaves?
And when your woman nurses you back to health,
delivers an icepack to your throne of a recliner
between breastfeeding and diaper changes, another task
in her domestic assembly line, can you look at the swollen
thing, propped up on some amalgamation of jewel-tone
pillows, as anything but the fortitude necessary to ghost
what is carnal, content to haunt my memory
if it ensures a life unburdened by the effort required
to tend us mere mortals by announcing departure,
despite the ocean that once surged in your body,
your past lover the moon, commanding its tide?
Or have you stared at the swollen ball
until it crystallized, diluting my potency
with an oracle’s promise: this accident symbolizes
your marching toward the future, beyond obstacles,
to festivals and accolades, red carpets and interviews.
But it will arrive at bedtime, guiltless child curled
upon your chest and the glowing belly of an owl
illuminating The Giving Tree from its perch of a socket.
You’ll think back to the forest, see beyond
your rippled reflection and hear my calls
in the whispers of wind, closing the book
to her gentle snores and the blaring realization
that I am the oak, begging to be chopped down,
for though I am meant to shed leaves, blossomed branches
sure to return each spring, my trunk is never changing,
your carvings in the bark outliving even the tree.
Blake Harrsch
VISITING MOM
I was asked for a ghost story
But I have so many
I chose not to choose
But I will say this
The world is filled with spirits
And in a way I am one myself
I am a spirit who comes to you
One who sees you
Growing closer to spirit
Each day yourself
But there is still you in you
Like vapor, water, ice
Molecules rearranged
In different states of matter
Yet still the same
Each time I visit I wonder
If you will no longer see me
And I will know
I will see it in your eyes
There or not there
But for now - you know me, recognize me
As one of your own
One who was once part of you
And that is all any spirit can ask
Like Casper from my childhood comics
A child ghost - an orphaned ghost
Lonely, seeking, wanting, needing
What we need most
Alive or not
See me, love me
I am
Terri J. Guttilla
GHOST DOG
He comes back as a white moth
dancing in autumn air
over what’s left of summer bloom.
How do I know? Dogs have
no human language. It’s his dancing
across our pasture, aiming at
me then swirling away, a tease
of lift and fall. He wants me to join
him in his dance – he always did,
no other partner in his life.
He keeps reminding me
with every free-darting white moth.
This very morning, on a springing
green trail. And my heart lifts
and falls dancing.
Taylor Graham
JUST BECAUSE THERE WAS PAIN
Just because you died doesn’t mean i love you less.
And yet…
Because you bullied me,
i learned to be quiet.
Because you started sprouting flaws,
i shrugged; we all have flaws.
Because you spurned my touch,
i learned the pleasure of my own hand.
Because you were not what i thought you were,
i shut down my dreams.
Because you used me for support,
i worked for you.
Because you tricked me,
i thought you loved me too.
Because you could wow me with words,
i thought i was lacking.
Because you hid in the closet,
i thought it was me, not you.
Because you said stop pawing me as i caressed your body,
depression became my soulmate.
Because you made my life hell,
i searched my soul for other worldly strength.
Just because you died
i never forgot you, the good and the bad altogether.
Linda K. Miller
ARLIE'S GHOST
Some days, I think I see her ghost
Peering through the window
At the garden, now neglected
The wooden rocker
Overgrown with Ivy
She is trapped
Tethered to a metal tank
Clear plastic tube
Around her throat
Ravaged by tumors
Crippling pain
Muted by a morphine pump
She no longer quarrels
With flower choking weeds
No longer reads the daily paper
But on her better days
She writes
Scribbled notes on envelopes,
Legal pads, brown paper bags
Friends come and go and come again
Fearful that the end is near
They grasp her frail hands
Then whisper in the hall
And shake their heads
She might as well be dead
Then one morning she is gone
An empty shell is all that’s left
To be carried off and burned to ash
Packed in a cedar box to wait
Until that cloudless summer day
We carry her remains
Out on the cliff where she once sat
To watch the boats out in the Bay
We place the urn atop a driftwood log
And lift the lid and watch
Her ashes stir, and stretch, and rise
As if some part of her survived
To plunge just one last time
Into a frigid Fundy Sea
Frank Kelly
GHOSTED
I was once a girl,
apple-cheeked,
hands warm to the touch.
Now I'm a whiff of wind,
a flash of shadows,
a wavering light.
I lack flesh and blood,
or anything solid.
I'm mere cardboard,
a face in photos
you tucked away.
I slipped through cracks
sometime in our lives.
I'm somebody
you have forgotten,
and no longer know.
Thus I float invisibly,
in the realm of ghosts.
Jackie Chou
LIBRARY GHOSTS
As I sit at my desk, they hover like
mists in old horror movies or Bronte
novels, forsaking the fens and moors
that spawned their birth where they are
forever ready to beguile the unwary.
Faint shrieks from Poe’s stories, moans
from Hardy’s misbegotten strangers,
the anguish of Heathcliff, Karamazov
Anna Karenina, Paul Morel, Samsa,
all cries of loneliness from yellowing pages.
I hear the wind of the endless desert as
the stranger stands in his classroom, see
Madame Bovary pining at her window,
the sound of Hedda Gabler’s off-stage
suicide, and Oedipus’ lonely road.
And behind it all I hear the rocking, rocking
of Sister Carrie as she waits eternally for her
life to begin, like many other of the lost and
forgotten souls bound forever between old
and spotted covers, lost amid yellowing pages.
And was it worth it, was it worth it after all?
A life of reading and talking, making waifs
take on shapes again for countless students
who groaned and looked at their phones as I
talked and tried to bring the dead to life?
Rob Miller
THE GRACE OF GHOSTS
As I stretch through my morning yoga,
My sister Margaret reaches out to me.
She died five years ago, but somehow
Grief’s resurgence has a timeline of its own.
Tears start flowing as I place my legs into
Child’s Pose, a bit awkward, as my husband
Is also stretching in the same room. He’s
Concentrating and doesn’t notice. My nose
Starts running onto the yoga mat, and I feel the
Urge to keep this event a secret between
Margaret and me. Is that how it is with ghosts?
Are they secrets that belong to each of us?
They have always been present, whispering
In the mists, fleeing through our dreams,
Echoing strangely in the tide as the foam rolls
Up the sand, flickering in a butterfly’s blue wing
Or scenting our space with roses from long ago.
We have read Macbeth, seen that terrifying play and
Learned that murder, cruelty and greed do not
Generate serenity in the next world. To free ourselves
From fear, we create silly movies and cartoon characters
About ghosts, but we remain conflicted whether these
Beings are good or evil. Aren’t they just like us?
Some souls glitter with glory; others carry the burden
Of rage and shame. I stretch my hands high into the sky
And touch my sister’s soft fingers, thanking her
For all that she was and is.
Rose Anna Higashi
SPIRITING AWAY
All that is solid
melts away
in death
consumed by fire
or worms
trans
decaying
into so much dust.
So only memories remain.
And the spirits,
of course,
the ghosts
of what we were
of what became us
and what we became.
Lynn White