Margaret Atwood
Margaret Eleanor Atwood, CC, OOnt, FRSC (born November 18, 1939) is a Canadian poet, novelist, literary critic, essayist, and environmental activist. She is among the most-honoured authors of fiction in recent history; she is a winner of the Arthur C. Clarke Award and Prince of Asturias award for Literature, has been shortlisted for the Booker Prize five times, winning once, and has been a finalist for the Governor General's Award seven times, winning twice.
While she is best known for her work as a novelist, she is also a poet, having published 15 books of poetry to date.[1][2] Many of her poems have been inspired by myths and fairy tales, which have been interests of hers from an early age.[3] Atwood has published short stories in Tamarack Review, Alphabet, Harper's, CBC Anthology, Ms., Saturday Night, and many other magazines. She has also published four collections of stories and three collections of unclassifiable short prose works.
WIKIPEDIA
While she is best known for her work as a novelist, she is also a poet, having published 15 books of poetry to date.[1][2] Many of her poems have been inspired by myths and fairy tales, which have been interests of hers from an early age.[3] Atwood has published short stories in Tamarack Review, Alphabet, Harper's, CBC Anthology, Ms., Saturday Night, and many other magazines. She has also published four collections of stories and three collections of unclassifiable short prose works.
WIKIPEDIA
Link to more poems
The Landlady
This is the lair of the landlady She is a raw voice loose in the rooms beneath me. the continuous henyard squabble going on below thought in this house like the bicker of blood through the head. She is everywhere, intrusive as the smells that bulge in under my doorsill; she presides over my meagre eating, generates the light for eyestrain. From her I rent my time: she slams my days like doors. Nothing is mine. and when I dream images of daring escapes through the snow I find myself walking always over a vast face which is the land- lady's, and wake up shouting. She is a bulk, a knot swollen in a space. Though I have tried to find some way around her, my senses are cluttered by perception and can't see through her. She stands there, a raucous fact blocking my way: immutable, a slab of what is real. solid as bacon. Variations on the Word Love This is a word we use to plug holes with. It's the right size for those warm blanks in speech, for those red heart- shaped vacancies on the page that look nothing like real hearts. Add lace and you can sell it. We insert it also in the one empty space on the printed form that comes with no instructions. There are whole magazines with not much in them but the word love, you can rub it all over your body and you can cook with it too. How do we know it isn't what goes on at the cool debaucheries of slugs under damp pieces of cardboard? As for the weed- seedlings nosing their tough snouts up among the lettuces, they shout it. Love! Love! sing the soldiers, raising their glittering knives in salute. Then there's the two of us. This word is far too short for us, it has only four letters, too sparse to fill those deep bare vacuums between the stars that press on us with their deafness. It's not love we don't wish to fall into, but that fear. this word is not enough but it will have to do. It's a single vowel in this metallic silence, a mouth that says O again and again in wonder and pain, a breath, a finger grip on a cliffside. You can hold on or let go Tricks With Mirrors |
This is a Photograph of Me
It was taken some time ago At first it seems to be a smeared print: blurred lines and grey flecks blended with the paper; then, as you scan it, you can see something in the left-hand corner a thing that is like a branch: part of a tree (balsam or spruce) emerging and, to the right, halfway up what ought to be a gentle slope, a small frame house. In the background there is a lake, and beyond that, some low hills. (The photograph was taken the day after I drowned. I am in the lake, in the center of the picture, just under the surface. It is difficult to say where precisely, or to say how large or how small I am: the effect of water on light is a distortion. but if you look long enough eventually you will see me.) Flying Inside Your Own Body Your lungs fill & spread themselves, wings of pink blood, and your bones empty themselves and become hollow. When you breathe in you’ll lift like a balloon and your heart is light too & huge, beating with pure joy, pure helium. The sun’s white winds blow through you, there’s nothing above you, you see the earth now as an oval jewel, radiant & seablue with love. It’s only in dreams you can do this. Waking, your heart is a shaken fist, a fine dust clogs the air you breathe in; the sun’s a hot copper weight pressing straight down on the think pink rind of your skull. It’s always the moment just before gunshot. You try & try to rise but you cannot. Death of a Young Son by Drowning He, who navigated with success the dangerous river of his own birth once more set forth on a voyage of discovery into the land I floated on but could not touch to claim. His feet slid on the bank, the currents took him; he swirled with ice and trees in the swollen water and plunged into distant regions, his head a bathysphere; through his eyes' thin glass bubbles he looked out, reckless adventurer on a landscape stranger than Uranus we have all been to and some remember. There was an accident; the air locked, he was hung in the river like a heart. They retrieved the swamped body, cairn of my plans and future charts, with poles and hooks from among the nudging logs. It was spring, the sun kept shining, the new grass leapt to solidity; my hands glistened with details. After the long trip I was tired of waves. My foot hit rock. The dreamed sails collapsed, ragged. I planted him in this country like a flag. |