Este tópico está presentemente marcado como "adormecido"—a última mensagem tem mais de 90 dias. Pode acordar o tópico publicando uma resposta.
What is your experience with Atwood's poetry? Do you have a favorite collection" poem? few lines?
You fit into me
like a hook into an eye
a fish hook
an open eye
I love this little book and have it beside my bed to dip into. Dipping always turns into complete immersion as I reread another and another. I'm thinking of "Mourning for dead cats" as I type and know I'll have to return to it tonight.
A Sad Child
You're sad because you're sad.
It's psychic. It's the age. It's chemical.
Go see a shrink or take a pill,
or hug your sadness like an eyeless doll
you need to sleep.
Well, all children are sad
but some get over it.
Count your blessings. Better than that,
buy a hat. Buy a coat or pet.
Take up dancing to forget.
Your sadness, your shadow,
whatever it was that was done to you
the day of the lawn party
when you came inside flushed with the sun,
your mouth sulky with sugar,
in your new dress with the ribbon
and the ice-cream smear,
and said to yourself in the bathroom,
I am not the favorite child.
My darling, when it comes
right down to it
and the light fails and the fog rolls in
and you're trapped in your overturned body
under a blanket or burning car,
and the red flame is seeping out of you
and igniting the tarmac beside you head
or else the floor, or else the pillow,
none of us is;
or else we all are.
Now I want to read every poem Atwood has written. Any suggestions on which of her poetry collections is the must-have not to be missed book?
Hey this one and the Sandburg both have fog in them (I memorized the Sandburg when I was about 12 and can still recite it...)
This is a photograph of me
It was taken some time ago.
At first it seems to be
print: blurred lines and grey flecks
blended with the paper;
then, as you scan
it, you see 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 farm 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 centre
of the picture, just under the surface.
It is difficult to say where
precisely, or to say
how large or small I am:
the effect of water
on light is a distortion
but if you look long enough,
you will be able to see me.)
Margaret Atwood became a Canadian Edgar Allan Poe to me at that precise moment, since I had read much of his works prior to this day, but had never read an Atwood novel. The poetry fused in my brain for some strange reason, and resonated for 30 odd years. This poem is likely why Surfacing was selected as my first of her novels to read.
In some ways, I feel the same about Anne Michaels. I like her novels but I love her poetry.