Oxford ghosts

Let me just preface this by saying that I don't write poetry.  But apparently walking home from the Bodleian in the dark does weird things to my psyche.  I jotted this down sometime in November. 
_________________________

Are there hauntings in these buildings?—

ancient effigies of stone—

where empty rooms

forgotten stairways

nooks and crannies unexplored

or turned

with whitewashed paint

to modern studies

where boys and girls

read ancient worlds

in artificial lamplight,

the warmth of dying coffee

in ceramic mugs

mismatched,

and fight to enter in

to empire

as shadows are dispersed

by rising sunlight on the river, tamed

until tomorrow

Bodleian hauntings

There is a woman who haunts the Bodleian.  I see her nearly every day that I make my way to the lower reading rooms to sift through dust-covered tomes on mythology and theory (which, if I'm honest, hasn't been for a while, since I currently spend my time in the upper reading rooms exploring Old Norse sagas and related criticism).  But when I say haunts, I do mean haunts -- I could easily believe that it is only I who sees her.  She walks -- or maybe glides -- from one side of the building to the other, her eyes invariably on the book she is reading while she roams (and who but a ghost could walk and read, never lift her eyes from the page, yet never stumble, bump, or trip?), her hair in the same loose bun, day after day, that could easily have made its way from the pages of the 1800s, and her waist-cinched, ankle-length black dress billowing around her.  If she is a ghost -- a female scholar debarred from the library during her time on earth -- I suppose there are worse ways to spend eternity than perusing the eleven million volumes in the Bodleian's collection.

Hampton Court Palace

Another post discovered in my draft folder. I'm sure I was waiting to write more details on this one. Suffice it to say, it was as awesome as it looks.

We watched A Man for all Seasons in preparation for the field-trip -- opening doors into the life of Henry VIII, Thomas Wolsey, and the scandal surrounding the palace.




Oh for the glory of Oxford days and English nights . . .

I try to avoid remembering too often, because it is all-together too strange that I am here, when just so recently I was there [a true statement when I wrote this -- now it's been almost a year].

Rebekah Giffone's ode to Hampton Court Palace, where we spent a glorious Thursday field-trip (led by Jonathan Kirkpatrick), during week2 of British Landscapes.

The Ghost of Hampton Court
Dec. 9, 2008

There were no ghosts at Hampton Court,
When I went there in the Fall,
No spectres graced the pathways,
No spirits walked the halls

The wind that blew was windy,
The air was normal air,
No longing gripped my being,
I sat and shuddered there

I was the ghost at Hampton Court,
That harshish Autumn noon,
Treading wraith-like in the gardens,
And undead through the rooms

The golden ache refused to burn,
No beauty pierced my mind,
No ghost returned to haunt me -
I thought myself unblind

"At last I shall see clearly,
the fancies stripped away,
the Past devoid of feeling,
It cannot see decay."

Lies, insidious lies!
Dear daughter, don't you see?
That in the ghosts of Yesteryears
the Present wakes to thee?

Until you meet them face to face,
These spectres keep you chained -
Let the legions haunt you,
I pray you: feel the pain

For spectres live through death,
In your death, they have their being,
You fill their weightless bodies,
And set their sockets seeing

But let a spirit haunt you,
And you rob it of its breath,
Declare yourself the living,
And the dead remain in death

***

There were no ghosts at Hampton Court,
When I went there in the Fall,
No spectres graced the pathways,
No spirits walked the halls

Yet now the day is closing,
The night is falling fast,
My heart begins its yearning,
for spirits of the past

The wind that blows is windy,
The air is normal air,
Yet longing grips my being,
I sit and crumble there

The golden ache begins to burn
These beauties pierce my soul,
A heavy peace now haunts me -
In the voidness, I am whole.

Until I meet You face to face,
These spectres keep me chained,
Yet in Your haunting Presence,
All questions die away

Your Spirit is the answer,
To bereft and bloodless minds -
Your beauty cuts me deeply:
I know I am alive

-Rebekah Giffone