I found this old poem I wrote when Edward Gorey died, so here it is:
What Happened to Mr. Edward Gorey
by John Clavis
Perhaps he was captured by miscreants, lurking
outside while poor Edward sat at his desk, working
On a book of such beauty and consummate skill
That the whole of the earth would, in awe, have
stood still.
And these miscreants hovered about, it would seem,
As agents of some large and sinister scheme
To deny all the Gorey fans hither and yon
The great magnum opus he labored upon.
For these villainous men were instructed to spy
When it seemed that the ink of the last page was dry
And then - like a snake - to advance and attack
And stuff book and author both into a sack!
'"Woe is me!", he will cry!', chortled one of the fiends,
"When he realizes what his predicament means!
That his book will be burned in a dark ceremony,
Surrounded by skeletons, crumbling and bony!"
"And a tear," mused another, "will roll down his cheek,
As he gnashes his teeth, too despairing to speak!
And our patron, the Nameless One, surely will
smile
For the first time, I'll wager, in quite a long while!"
For hours and miles did this foul rumination
Continue without any sign of cessation
As the trio of troublesome trundlers trod
Towards a ramshackle castle, not far from Cape Cod.*
But it seems, at this moment, a fine time to note
That the kidnappers, eager to daydream and gloat,
Had wholly forgotten that our Mr. Ed
Nursed a long-standing habit of smoking in bed.
And, trapped though he was in a desperate
position,
Mr. Gorey felt sure and secure in his mission
To thwart his assailants in a matter befit
Of the Master Macabre of Victorian wit.
So, reaching down into a pocket, he found
What, blind, he could recognize merely by sound
As a matchbox he'd utilized early that day
To light up a pipeful of Cardamon Grey.
And though it would surely result in his death
Mr. Gorey paused not but the span of a breath
But ignited a match and, with glee in his heart
Proceeded to kindle his last work of art.
Within minutes the flames had consumed all the pages
Of this masterful manuscript, lost to the ages,
And began to devour poor Edward, as well
In a blaze that, no doubt, would have matched
that of Hell.
And though the experience was quite distressing,
Mr. Gorey, at this very time, was addressing
In his mind all the fans he had slowly accrued,
Saying, "Pardon me for what must seem awfully
rude.
"But, you see, it is best that I die and descend.
For, just like my books, I begin and I end.
And a hint of the wonders in this, my last book
Can be found in my works, one and all, if you
look!"
At this time, the rogues who had captured this bard
(Who, at this time, seemed sure to be charcoaled and charred)
Had paused in their premature self-celebration
Long enough to take stock of their queer situation
Employed to abduct an enfeelbled old man
And make haste to the castle, as set in the plan,
Our foes found themselves in possession, alack
Of a mighty inferno, half-hid in a sack!
Though far from possessing the world's finest
minds,
These thugs had experience spotting the signs
That the plan was, in no small terms, quite null and void
Since the author, the book and the sack were
destroyed.
So with three heavy hearts (and a slightly singed finger),
Did our kidnappers leave - although one deigned to linger,
Transfixed by the glow of the last burning ember,
And his partners returned for their tarrying
member.
"What good is it," grumbled the worst of the
three,
"To stare at a pile of ash and debris?"
"I was curious," said the kidnapper who'd stayed,
"Why the crazy old man paid the price that he
paid?"
"Just what was so precious that, rather than
chance
That the book would fall into the Nameless One's hands
He would set it ablaze, with his life as the cost,
Thus ensuring the book to the world would be
lost?"
And, with that piercing inquiry, all of them
looked
At the blackened remains of the man that had
cooked
And they wondered if even three crooks such as they
Could equal his metal, in some meager way.
Then, quite sure that their failure would anger their client
They nevertheless, this one time, were defiant
And proceeded to spend several hours in toil
Digging a grave in that damp, sandy soil
But when the time came to commit Mr. Gorey
To the pit he would share with his last, greatest story
The trio looked up from their hole in the ground
To discover that Edward was not to be found.
And though many assume that a wolf or a bear
Had dragged Mr. Gorey back into their lair
I like to assume (though I know it sounds weird)
That the body and manuscript... just disappeared.
And the kidnappers, frightened, distraught and unnerved
Brought unto each other the fate they deserved
For they each drew their daggers and, like men possessed
Delivered deep punctures, and time did the rest.
And what of this novel that Gorey had writ?
Are we ever to be without this endless wit?
As he himself once said, in a tone light and
jolly,
"To take my work seriously would be the height of folly."
*Edward Gorey died in April 2000 at Cape Cod Hospital, at the age of 75. He will be missed.
Clavis |
