Of ghosts and magic spookfulness

When we planned the poetry retreat to be held in Autumn, we had in mind just the weather we are enjoying how. The intense summer heat has, it seems, increased the sugar levels in the leaves so we now have the most magnificent show of russet and gold as the leaves perform their annual dance. They swirl and drift down to create a bronzed magic carpet under the trees - throwing light upwards like footlights on a stage. Deep orange pumpkins and bright yellow squashes hang precariously from Triffid-like runners; clambering over fences and along the damp ground. Sometimes the effect is uniformly golden; the bright blue sky a perfect foil. At others it glows softly pink, as Keats observed so well in Ode to Autumn: While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day, And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue; Dying might seem to be the current theme of things. Here in France the feast of Toussaint or All Saints is the traditional time for families to get together. To visit elderly relatives still robustly enjoying life and to make a pilgrimage to the graves of loved ones who have already shuffled off this mortal coil. For the latter they go armed with massive bouquets of chrysanthemums. Do we detect a hint of competition as neighbours vie with each other to place huge displays on, often magnificent, graves and tombs? The graveyards, that always have the best view in town, are a blaze of colour for a week or so. Then these forced blooms die away for good, which always seems rather sad. Increasingly there is an attempt by the great wheels of commerce to inculcate us into transatlantic ways and bring the tawdry side of the festivities to us with orange and black tat, plastic witches outfits, badly drawn skeletons and buckets of Trick or Treat bon bons. The French appear impervious. At least here in our quiet backwater. There is a costume ball in the next village, but it’s largely for the benefit of the children and gives them a bit of fun at a dark time of year. Otherwise the focus is very much on flowers for the dead and kudos for the living. It doesn’t feel very spooky. Perhaps we should have dressed the house up in Halloween finery. Our rather old-fashioned French villa would lend itself to a touch of gothic horror. Spider webs wreathing over the wrought iron canopy and a wizened old witch perhaps just inside the tall, as yet still-rusty, iron gates. But less is more when it comes to haunting. As illustrated in this evocative little poem:

All Hallows by Louise Gluck Even now this landscape is assembling. The hills darken. The oxen sleep in their blue yoke, the fields having been picked clean, the sheaves bound evenly and piled at the roadside among cinquefoil, as the toothed moon rises: This is the barrenness of harvest or pestilence. And the wife leaning out the window with her hand extended, as in payment, and the seeds distinct, gold, calling Come here Come here, little one And the soul creeps out of the tree. Some believe this poem is a story of the selling of a child; others that it describes a death. Either way it is chilling. the soul creeping out of the tree evokes everything that is wistful and ghostly about this season.

Far from darkening, our hillsides are ablaze; but we know it is a short lived fire so we enjoy it while we can. Cinquefoil, or Potentilla, abounds at the roadside with it’s strawberry-like leaves and pretty, delicate flowers. The moon in the nights leading up to Halloween was larger and brighter than at any time of year. Making sure, perhaps, that the deeds of darkness could not take place in secret. Autumn and Halloween lend themselves to poetic endeavour. Perhaps it is to do with the approaching long winter nights. More time spent indoors. A feeling of literary creativity replacing activity as the year winds down. Or perhaps it is just that witches, goblins, magic and mayhem will always arouse the poet in us. Once I was moved to write an amusing account of a magic show I saw on Halloween. I was taken with the power that the magician wielded over the audience. I was also travelling with a particularly indecisive colleague so I dedicated this poem to him. I did not intend it to turn dark. But then this dark time of tortured souls and lost chances has an influence all of it’s own: Halloween Trick by Sheila Large He practises fantastic magic, holds precarious fate in his hands. With dangerous tricks and illusion, his audience is held spellbound. White doves appear on his shoulder, then turn into snakes in a flash. With a flourish his cane is a dagger, hurled through the air with panache. Yet at home his wizardry fails him, life’s decisions too painful to take, requiring a degree of enchantment, to help decide on his fate. Halloween draws in misty and mellow, by when he must choose just one option. And summoning powers of allurement, catches leaves in a trick used so often. A leaf in each fist - the first open, red or gold will decide on his plight. He faces himself in the mirror, (knowing his hands can be sleight). Right and left each holds a compulsion, though once chosen his fate will be cast. When he opens his palms they’re both empty, in delusion his future has passed. Footnote: Yesterday we had another addition to the family. We welcome our latest boy, Parker Jace Thomas, to the world - sharing his birthday with his cousin Hugh, 3, and his second cousin Lauren, 19. So for us 1st November will not be the time of commemorating death but of celebrating how life renews, magically, again and again.