first rays tore the night
stories filled all people’s hearts
suddenly the dark
story
the story writes itself
the story writes itself
and we only find
out what it is with
a bang a jump a shudder
the story can never stop writing
Tell me a story
Tell me a story
and you will always have me,
listening, living
Stories
I have become the stories that my parents told each other, nervous, excited, looking at the sky.
I am the stories that friends have woven and imagined, each new beginning another tale.
One day, one day, I will be the stories that my children more or less remember or in their own ages tell their own.
I was, will be, and am those stories.
My story held
My story held tigers and bears, fierce, clawed. Held them. Just. Then she softened the boundaries and freed the imaginary.
The hero did
The hero did – yes, that thing you thought. The villain, though, he – yes, you’re right again. And then – but you know that.
On feeling a story
The imagination of the senses: the sight,
the smell, the touch – oh, the touch –
the deep deep stirring words bring.
Storytelling
Guess what happened next! You’ll never guess!
Was it the elephant?
No!
Did Guacamole the cowboy come back?
No.
Ooh, ooh! The spaceship –
No! No, it was Mrs Bunn the baker! She –
I don’t remember her.
Mrs Bunn! Mrs Bunn the baker! She –
No, I don’t remember her. Tell me about the elephant. I like the elephant.
The story that might yet unfold
You go to your bath, violet-scented.
Hours later, I go to my bed
and lie, heart double fist thumping,
and wonder at the story that might yet unfold.
Tell me a story
Daddy, tell me the story of the ninja horse.”
“I don’t know that one.”
“The princess, the sword and the unicorn.”
“Or that one.”
“Mummy knows them.”
“Clever Mummy. What about the one where Jack’s beans talk?”
“No.”
“The one where poor little Nick never gets chosen but one day the teddy bears pick Nick?”
“OK. But only if they live happily ever after. And together.”
“OK.”
“I like together.”
