Neil Gaiman -- Locks
We owe it to each other to tell stories,
as people simply, not as father and daughter.
I tell it to you for the hundredth time:
"There was a little girl, called Goldilocks,
for her hair was long and golden,
and she was walking in the Wood and she saw — "
"— cows." You say it with certainty,
remembering the strayed heifers we saw in the woods
behind the house, last month.
"Well, yes, perhaps she saw cows,
but also she saw a house."
"— a great big house," you tell me.
"No, a little house, all painted, neat and tidy."
"A great big house."
You have the conviction of all two-year-olds.
I wish I had such certitude.
"Ah. Yes. A great big house.
And she went in . . ."
I remember, as I tell it, that the locks
Of Southey's heroine had silvered with age.
The Old Woman and the Three Bears . . .
Perhaps they had been golden once, when she was a child.
And now, we are already up to the porridge,
"And it was too— "
"— hot!"
"And it was too— "
— cold!"
And then it was, we chorus, "just right."
The porridge is eaten, the baby's chair is shattered,
Goldilocks goes upstairs, examines beds, and sleeps,
unwisely.
But then the bears return.
Remembering Southey still, I do the voices:
Father Bear's gruff boom scares you, and you delight in it.
When I was a small child and heard the tale,
if I was anyone I was Baby Bear,
my porridge eaten, and my chair destroyed,
my bed inhabited by some strange girl.
You giggle when I do the baby's wail,
"Someone's been eating my prridge, and they've eaten it —"
"All up," you say. A response it is,
Or an amen.
The bears go upstairs hesitantly,
their house now feels desecrated. They realize
what locks are for. They reach the bedroom.
"Someone's been sleeping in my bed."
And here I hesitate, echoes of old jokes,
soft-core cartoons, crude headlines, in my head.
One day your mouth will curl at that line.
A loss of interest, later, innocence.
Innocence; as if it were a commodity.
"And if I could," my father wrote to me,
huge as a bear himself, when I was younger,
"I would dower you with experience, without experience."
and I, in my turn, would pass that on to you.
But we make our own mistakes. We sleep
unwisely.
It is our right. It is our madness and our glory.
The repetition echoes down the years.
When your children grow; when your dark locks begin to silver,
when you are an old woman, alone with your three bears,
what will you see? What stories will you tell?
"And then Goldilicks jumped out of the window and she ran —
Together, now: "All the way home."
And then you say, "Again. Again. Again."
We owe it to each other to tell stories.
These days my sympathy's with Father Bear.
Before I leave my house I lock the door,
and check each bed and chair on my return.
Again.
Again.
Again..
I've learned so much from Neil Gaiman over the years. When I was younger, when I was literally just learning how to write and slowly letting it seep into my blood, it was either Gaiman, or Alan Dean Foster. It still is both of them in a way. I still want to write like Gaiman. I still want to make impossible things seem completely plausible and thoroughly entertaining. And I want to do it seriously. Its not a hobby for Mr. G. It's his life now. I would say its his everything, but that's obviously not true. Because when Short stories and movies and comic books and reviews were no longer enough, Neil Gaiman started writing Children's books and fun, sweet, wonderful poems like this one; for his children. For his children. Every parent, ever proper father wants to give their child the world. Neil gives his children countless worlds. I want to be a writer like Neil Gaiman. I want to be a father like Neil Gaiman too.
(Bio from his website: http://www.neilgaiman.com)
Bestselling author Neil Gaiman has long been one of the top writers in modern comics, as well as writing books for readers of all ages. He is listed in the Dictionary of Literary Biography as one of the top ten living post-modern writers, and is a prolific creator of works of prose, poetry, film, journalism, comics, song lyrics, and drama.
His New York Times bestselling 2001 novel for adults, American Gods, was awarded the Hugo, Nebula, Bram Stoker, SFX, and Locus awards, was nominated for many other awards, including the World Fantasy Award and the Minnesota Book Award, and appeared on many best-of-year lists.
Gaiman's eagerly awaited next novel for adults, Anansi Boys debuted on the New York Times Bestseller list in September, 2005. About Anansi Boys Gaiman says: "It's a scary, funny sort of a story, which isn't exactly a thriller, and isn't really horror, and doesn't quite qualify as a ghost story (although it has at least one ghost in it), or a romantic comedy (although there are several romances in there, and it's certainly a comedy, except for the scary bits).” An audio version of the entire text of Anansi Boys, as read by UK comedian Lenny Henry, has also been published by HarperAudio as both regular CDs and as MP3-CDs.
(Cripes he's got a long bio. I guess that's what happens when you become a literary rockstar. I've only posted a bit of it here, you can read the rest here -->(http://www.neilgaiman.com/p/About_Neil/Biography) However, I wanted to make sure I got in the bit about Anansi Boys because I just finished it a month ago and I highly recommend it!)
We owe it to each other to tell stories,
as people simply, not as father and daughter.
I tell it to you for the hundredth time:
"There was a little girl, called Goldilocks,
for her hair was long and golden,
and she was walking in the Wood and she saw — "
"— cows." You say it with certainty,
remembering the strayed heifers we saw in the woods
behind the house, last month.
"Well, yes, perhaps she saw cows,
but also she saw a house."
"— a great big house," you tell me.
"No, a little house, all painted, neat and tidy."
"A great big house."
You have the conviction of all two-year-olds.
I wish I had such certitude.
"Ah. Yes. A great big house.
And she went in . . ."
I remember, as I tell it, that the locks
Of Southey's heroine had silvered with age.
The Old Woman and the Three Bears . . .
Perhaps they had been golden once, when she was a child.
And now, we are already up to the porridge,
"And it was too— "
"— hot!"
"And it was too— "
— cold!"
And then it was, we chorus, "just right."
The porridge is eaten, the baby's chair is shattered,
Goldilocks goes upstairs, examines beds, and sleeps,
unwisely.
But then the bears return.
Remembering Southey still, I do the voices:
Father Bear's gruff boom scares you, and you delight in it.
When I was a small child and heard the tale,
if I was anyone I was Baby Bear,
my porridge eaten, and my chair destroyed,
my bed inhabited by some strange girl.
You giggle when I do the baby's wail,
"Someone's been eating my prridge, and they've eaten it —"
"All up," you say. A response it is,
Or an amen.
The bears go upstairs hesitantly,
their house now feels desecrated. They realize
what locks are for. They reach the bedroom.
"Someone's been sleeping in my bed."
And here I hesitate, echoes of old jokes,
soft-core cartoons, crude headlines, in my head.
One day your mouth will curl at that line.
A loss of interest, later, innocence.
Innocence; as if it were a commodity.
"And if I could," my father wrote to me,
huge as a bear himself, when I was younger,
"I would dower you with experience, without experience."
and I, in my turn, would pass that on to you.
But we make our own mistakes. We sleep
unwisely.
It is our right. It is our madness and our glory.
The repetition echoes down the years.
When your children grow; when your dark locks begin to silver,
when you are an old woman, alone with your three bears,
what will you see? What stories will you tell?
"And then Goldilicks jumped out of the window and she ran —
Together, now: "All the way home."
And then you say, "Again. Again. Again."
We owe it to each other to tell stories.
These days my sympathy's with Father Bear.
Before I leave my house I lock the door,
and check each bed and chair on my return.
Again.
Again.
Again..
I've learned so much from Neil Gaiman over the years. When I was younger, when I was literally just learning how to write and slowly letting it seep into my blood, it was either Gaiman, or Alan Dean Foster. It still is both of them in a way. I still want to write like Gaiman. I still want to make impossible things seem completely plausible and thoroughly entertaining. And I want to do it seriously. Its not a hobby for Mr. G. It's his life now. I would say its his everything, but that's obviously not true. Because when Short stories and movies and comic books and reviews were no longer enough, Neil Gaiman started writing Children's books and fun, sweet, wonderful poems like this one; for his children. For his children. Every parent, ever proper father wants to give their child the world. Neil gives his children countless worlds. I want to be a writer like Neil Gaiman. I want to be a father like Neil Gaiman too.
Bestselling author Neil Gaiman has long been one of the top writers in modern comics, as well as writing books for readers of all ages. He is listed in the Dictionary of Literary Biography as one of the top ten living post-modern writers, and is a prolific creator of works of prose, poetry, film, journalism, comics, song lyrics, and drama.
His New York Times bestselling 2001 novel for adults, American Gods, was awarded the Hugo, Nebula, Bram Stoker, SFX, and Locus awards, was nominated for many other awards, including the World Fantasy Award and the Minnesota Book Award, and appeared on many best-of-year lists.
Gaiman's eagerly awaited next novel for adults, Anansi Boys debuted on the New York Times Bestseller list in September, 2005. About Anansi Boys Gaiman says: "It's a scary, funny sort of a story, which isn't exactly a thriller, and isn't really horror, and doesn't quite qualify as a ghost story (although it has at least one ghost in it), or a romantic comedy (although there are several romances in there, and it's certainly a comedy, except for the scary bits).” An audio version of the entire text of Anansi Boys, as read by UK comedian Lenny Henry, has also been published by HarperAudio as both regular CDs and as MP3-CDs.
(Cripes he's got a long bio. I guess that's what happens when you become a literary rockstar. I've only posted a bit of it here, you can read the rest here -->(http://www.neilgaiman.com/p/About_Neil/Biography) However, I wanted to make sure I got in the bit about Anansi Boys because I just finished it a month ago and I highly recommend it!)
No comments:
Post a Comment