THE DAY THE SAUCERS CAME
That day, the saucers landed. Hundreds of them, golden,
Silent, coming down from the sky like great snowflakes,
And the people of Earth stood and
stared as they descended,
Waiting, dry-mouthed, to find what waited inside for us
And none of us knowing if we would be here tomorrow
But you didn’t notice it because
That day, the day the saucers came, by some coincidence,
Was the day that the graves gave up their dead
And the zombies pushed up through soft earth
or erupted, shambling and dull-eyed, unstoppable,
Came towards us, the living, and we screamed and ran,
But you did not notice this because
On the saucer day, which was the zombie day, it was
Ragnarok also, and the television screens showed us
A ship built of dead-men’s nails, a serpent, a wolf,
All bigger than the mind could hold,
and the cameraman could
Not get far enough away, and then the Gods came out
But you did not see them coming because
On the saucer-zombie-battling-gods
day the floodgates broke
And each of us was engulfed by genies and sprites
Offering us wishes and wonders and eternities
And charm and cleverness and true
brave hearts and pots of gold
While giants feefofummed across
The land, and killer bees,
But you had no idea of any of this because
That day, the saucer day the zombie day
The Ragnarok and fairies day, the
day the great winds came
And snows, and the cities turned to crystal, the day
All plants died, plastics dissolved, the day the
Computers turned, the screens telling
us we would obey, the day
Angels, drunk and muddled, stumbled from the bars,
And all the bells of London were sounded, the day
Animals spoke to us in Assyrian, the Yeti day,
The fluttering capes and arrival of
the Time Machine day,
You didn’t notice any of this because
you were sitting in your room, not doing anything
not even reading, not really, just
looking at your telephone,
wondering if I was going to call.
- NEIL GAIMAN
Neil Gaiman is a well known fantasy author, this is from his book of poetry and short stories, fragile things. While I found these stories worth reading, I enjoyed them less than I should. I would probably have quite enjoyed them when I was younger and would have enjoyed more the transgressive macabre tone and have been more surprised by the inevitable twist (the fantasy short story has never left O. Henry behind, only rarely following in the path of the modern short story laid down by Chekhov.) I found the twist in this poem quite satisfactory, however. And sometimes, even when the twist was obvious from the first few pages, the concept was good enough to carry it anyway, as in the short stories Forbidden Brides of the Faceless Slaves in the Secret House of the Night of Dread Desire, or in Sunbird. But each of these stories is about one twist, and I guess I want just a bit more to be completely satisfied.
I did find his romp through the strange world of American fantasy — both immigrant and native, mind you — as realized in Anansi Boys and American Gods, quite enjoyable. They deserve the obvious (when you read them) comparison to Douglas Adams and the Long Dark Tea Time of the Soul. They don’t, of course, measure up to that high standard, but that’s OK.