Wednesday, May 4, 2011

52 poems (week 8)

I went through a Margaret Atwood phase years ago, where I read some of her oldest novels until I was sick of being crammed behind the eyeballs of a 30/40-something woman in some inner turmoil. I hit saturation point after five books and only recently returned to her, to Oryx & Crake and to a book of short stories chosen by my book group. Now I've just discovered her poetry, strange pieces so unlike her prose, I can't reconcile them.

from Spelling

...I wonder how many women
denied themselves daughters,
closed themselves in rooms,
drew the curtains
so they could mainline words...

A child is not a poem,
a poem is not a child.
there is no either/or.

from Night Poem

...In this country of water
with its beige moon damp as a mushroom,

its drowned stumps and long birds
that swim, where the moss grows
on all sides of the trees
and your shadow is not your shadow
but your reflection,

your true parents disappear
when the curtain covers your door...
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