Sarah Wragg

Wordy ghost wrangler, poet, short story writer

Everybody loves a good mind puzzle, so mine is that you’ve got to work out what the questions are:

FAQs without the Qs

I don’t know – call me an open-minded sceptic. 

I might have had a couple of strange encounters, but will totally believe the rational explanations given by Uncanny scientists. 

I didn’t set out to write ghost poems. A few years ago I was doing some writing exercises and wrote one as a bit of fun. It went down very well and got published at the first attempt! It actually came as a bit of a revelation to me. It silenced my imposter syndrome! Hardly anything, ever, does that, so it made me think, “ooo, maybe I’m onto something here”. 

No, I don’t always write poems. At the turn of the century (it still feels odd saying that)I wrote a collection of ghost short stories inspired by reading The Turn of the Screw. They’re set in the present day so I could bring the sense of unheimlich to the modern familiar, but retain the feel of the good old fashioned Victorian ghost story which, IMHO, simply cannot be bettered. I’m currently editing them, then the plan is to publish them as an ebook – watch this space.

No, I don’t always write about ghosts. I write short stories, and absolutely love it when people laugh at the funny bits… um, especially the bits that are intentionally funny. 

In the absence of my own website (which will materialise as soon as I get my head around the frustrations of IT ‘logic’), scroll down for examples of my ghost poems. 

It’s available as an ebook from the brilliant Hedgehog Poetry Press, or directly from me if you want to physically hold it in your hands. Follow my Ghost Walk Facebook page then message me for details, or come to one of the open mic nights or literary events I’ll be reading them at. 

There’s a new collection in the offing which will be published by Beautiful Dragons Press. I’ve had non-ghost poems published in many of their anthologies, and am proud to call myself a Dragon! 


Under Westminster Bridge

She sat alone at the prow,
lost in her sadness.
Well away from the tourists and selfie takers.
They said it was fancy dress –
the ancient black clothing,
widows’ weeds,
and a veil pulled low over her face.

A chill shower and everyone went inside,
for the warmth of tea in cardboard cups.
But the woman stayed on deck.
She stood and walked to the rails
where she looked longingly into the murky water.
Only the captain saw her jump.
He stopped the engine, spread the alarm,
began the search…
But they never found her.

A few days later she returned –
to the same seat at the prow.
Concerned, the captain went to talk.
But when he saw the emptiness behind the veil,
he stood back and let her jump again.

The Old Bookshop

Sitting in the armchair next to where the chimney used to be,
the storyteller begins her tale. 
Looking up every time she turns the page
she sees the semicircle of cross-legged children
staring up at her, enthralled. 
But the bookshop owner isn’t telling the story to them.
The tiny, centuries-old building
had its own ideas –  
spitting out a translucent boy, 
malnourished, scared, covered in soot,
who stood shyly by her
whenever she sat down to read.
So finally she read a story out loud
and when the boy drew closer and smiled
she read another and another. 
Now there are stories for children every day
and every day the boy inches closer to their crescent.
She hopes one day he will be brave enough to sit cross-legged with them
and have a chance to understand what childhood is. 

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