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Morning in the Burned House: Poems
The renowned poet and author of The Handmaid’s Tale “brings a swift, powerful energy� to this “intimate and immediate� poetry collection ( Publishers Weekly ). These beautifully crafted poems, by turns dark, playful, intensely moving, tender, and intimate, are some of Margaret Atwood’s most accomplished and versatile works. Some draw on history and some on myth, both classical and popular. Others, more personal, concern themselves with love, with the fragility of the natural world, and with death. Generous, searing, compassionate, and disturbing, this poetry rises out of human experience to seek a level between luminous memory and the realities of the everyday, between the capacity to inflict and the strength to forgive.
144 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1995
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About the author
Margaret Atwood
638books87kfollowersMargaret Atwood was born in 1939 in Ottawa and grew up in northern Ontario, Quebec, and Toronto. She received her undergraduate degree from Victoria College at the University of Toronto and her master's degree from Radcliffe College.
Throughout her writing career, Margaret Atwood has received numerous awards and honourary degrees. She is the author of more than thirty-five volumes of poetry, children’s literature, fiction, and non-fiction and is perhaps best known for her novels, which include The Edible Woman (1970), The Handmaid's Tale (1983), The Robber Bride (1994), Alias Grace (1996), and The Blind Assassin, which won the prestigious Booker Prize in 2000. Atwood's dystopic novel, Oryx and Crake, was published in 2003. The Tent (mini-fictions) and Moral Disorder (short stories) both appeared in 2006. Her most recent volume of poetry, The Door, was published in 2007. Her non-fiction book, Payback: Debt and the Shadow Side of Wealth in the Massey series, appeared in 2008, and her most recent novel, The Year of the Flood, in the autumn of 2009. Ms. Atwood's work has been published in more than forty languages, including Farsi, Japanese, Turkish, Finnish, Korean, Icelandic and Estonian. In 2004 she co-invented the Long Pen TM.
Margaret Atwood currently lives in Toronto with writer Graeme Gibson.
Associations: Margaret Atwood was President of the Writers' Union of Canada from May 1981 to May 1982, and was President of International P.E.N., Canadian Centre (English Speaking) from 1984-1986. She and Graeme Gibson are the Joint Honourary Presidents of the Rare Bird Society within BirdLife International. Ms. Atwood is also a current Vice-President of PEN International.
Throughout her writing career, Margaret Atwood has received numerous awards and honourary degrees. She is the author of more than thirty-five volumes of poetry, children’s literature, fiction, and non-fiction and is perhaps best known for her novels, which include The Edible Woman (1970), The Handmaid's Tale (1983), The Robber Bride (1994), Alias Grace (1996), and The Blind Assassin, which won the prestigious Booker Prize in 2000. Atwood's dystopic novel, Oryx and Crake, was published in 2003. The Tent (mini-fictions) and Moral Disorder (short stories) both appeared in 2006. Her most recent volume of poetry, The Door, was published in 2007. Her non-fiction book, Payback: Debt and the Shadow Side of Wealth in the Massey series, appeared in 2008, and her most recent novel, The Year of the Flood, in the autumn of 2009. Ms. Atwood's work has been published in more than forty languages, including Farsi, Japanese, Turkish, Finnish, Korean, Icelandic and Estonian. In 2004 she co-invented the Long Pen TM.
Margaret Atwood currently lives in Toronto with writer Graeme Gibson.
Associations: Margaret Atwood was President of the Writers' Union of Canada from May 1981 to May 1982, and was President of International P.E.N., Canadian Centre (English Speaking) from 1984-1986. She and Graeme Gibson are the Joint Honourary Presidents of the Rare Bird Society within BirdLife International. Ms. Atwood is also a current Vice-President of PEN International.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 307 reviews
August 7, 2022
But it’s love that does us in. Over and over
Again
April 27, 2012
I remember this book well. It was 2006: it was before lunch, it was October, it was raining a bit. I was at a workshop, we had a bit of a break, I was nervous and jittery and mooching off somebody's cigarette pack. I hoped buying a book would make me feel better. My favourite book shop at the time was allowed to set up a table outside the hall - maybe they heard that writers have been congregating here for the past two days - and I thought it was a pretty smart decision. We bought a lot of books that day. We also got pretty drunk that night. Years after: relationships dissolved, some ideals were let go of, the urge to write comes and goes, and yet this book remains.
Written on April 27, 2007:
While I never blamed my parents for putting me in such a position between the firstborn of the family (who acts like the youngest now) and my two youngest sisters, I do feel the brunt of it sometimes. Growing up I just taught myself not to care. I do find this the saddest thing, though, something which is a bit true (at least, for this family):
But because I’ve learned to live with it, and because I’ve long ago told myself that I cannot absolutely afford to get upset about things like this, I pull this poem out, like I’ve done a lot of times, and sit still, and keep quiet, and be okay:
Written on April 27, 2007:
While I never blamed my parents for putting me in such a position between the firstborn of the family (who acts like the youngest now) and my two youngest sisters, I do feel the brunt of it sometimes. Growing up I just taught myself not to care. I do find this the saddest thing, though, something which is a bit true (at least, for this family):
“They tend to have fewer pictures in the family photo album alone, compared to firstborns.� ()
But because I’ve learned to live with it, and because I’ve long ago told myself that I cannot absolutely afford to get upset about things like this, I pull this poem out, like I’ve done a lot of times, and sit still, and keep quiet, and be okay:
A Sad Child
Margaret Atwood
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.
Forget what?
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 favourite 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 your head
or else the floor, or else the pillow,
none of us is;
or else we all are.
June 30, 2023
A stunning poetry collection that examines violence, faith, and memory. Margaret Atwood crafts universes with her words; each poem is dark, intense, and and profoundly intimate; we see emotions and reflections on death, betrayal, judgement, the fragility and indifference of nature, the hard truths behind the myths we so often speculate on. Morning in the Burned House is a masterful collection, timeless and beautiful.
July 23, 2023
There is a quote from Michael Ondaatje on the back cover of the volume I read, "Margaret Atwood brings all the violence of mythology into the present world... She is the quiet Mata Hard, the mysterious, violent figure... who pits herself against the ordered, too-clean world like an arsonist."
I cannot state it better than that. This is a volume of poetry that is intense, moving, and often takes a dark turn. For example, my favorite of the poems is "Half-Hanged Mary," which is based on a true story of a woman who was accused of witchcraft and left hanging from a tree overnight. By all accounts she survived to live more than a decade more. Some lines....
"I was hanged for living alone,
for having blue eyes and a sunburned skin,
tattered skirts, few buttons,
a weedy farm in my own name,
and a surefire cure for warts;
Oh yes, and breasts,
and a sweet pear hidden in my body.
Whenever there's talk of demons
those come in handy."
Other favorites include: "Waiting," which is about childhood fears that revisit in later life, "February," a time of winter, a cat's antics, and longing for spring, "Red Fox, survival without charity, and "Miss July Grows Older," aging 'gracefully.'
I cannot state it better than that. This is a volume of poetry that is intense, moving, and often takes a dark turn. For example, my favorite of the poems is "Half-Hanged Mary," which is based on a true story of a woman who was accused of witchcraft and left hanging from a tree overnight. By all accounts she survived to live more than a decade more. Some lines....
"I was hanged for living alone,
for having blue eyes and a sunburned skin,
tattered skirts, few buttons,
a weedy farm in my own name,
and a surefire cure for warts;
Oh yes, and breasts,
and a sweet pear hidden in my body.
Whenever there's talk of demons
those come in handy."
Other favorites include: "Waiting," which is about childhood fears that revisit in later life, "February," a time of winter, a cat's antics, and longing for spring, "Red Fox, survival without charity, and "Miss July Grows Older," aging 'gracefully.'
August 9, 2017
Margaret Atwood speaks with candid authority in this collection, whether she is talking about love or war or the minutiae of the natural world. She is particularly eloquent about aging.
From “Miss July Grows Older�--
“what you get is no longer
what you see.�
And from “King Lear in Respite Care�--
“Time is another element
you never think about
until it’s gone.
Things like ceilings, or air.�
We know she has the ability to take on many personas, and she shows quite a range here, from Helen of Troy to Ava Gardner. But still, it surprised me when she took on MY persona. In the poem “Waiting,� from the first line--“Here it is then, the dark thing,� it was clear she had somehow got inside my head and wrote about my thoughts and memories.
Another remarkably rewarding read from the writer who over and over proves herself to be my favorite.
From “Miss July Grows Older�--
“what you get is no longer
what you see.�
And from “King Lear in Respite Care�--
“Time is another element
you never think about
until it’s gone.
Things like ceilings, or air.�
We know she has the ability to take on many personas, and she shows quite a range here, from Helen of Troy to Ava Gardner. But still, it surprised me when she took on MY persona. In the poem “Waiting,� from the first line--“Here it is then, the dark thing,� it was clear she had somehow got inside my head and wrote about my thoughts and memories.
Another remarkably rewarding read from the writer who over and over proves herself to be my favorite.
August 22, 2022
Asparagus and Flowers are the best. Atwood is a recluse. I like her stuff and as I've mentioned, some. Would you read my stuff (lol would you like me to pull out my 'imaginary' address book and send them to you. Um no (I'm not looking to get published - right now - I've sent out more than once. Possibly a blessing in disguise, I understand :-) To paraphrase a line from an Al Purdy poem, if you do nothing you have nothing. And I very well could if I wanted to.)
Thank you to my library and a pretty good writer.
Thank you to my library and a pretty good writer.
January 3, 2013
I've long been a fan of Margaret Atwood's, but, other than a handful of her poetry, I have read only her fiction. This is a compelling collection. I was not moved so much by language as by feeling, and it is the only compilation of poetry I've encountered which covers with brutal honesty the topics of middle age, old age, and the death of an elderly parent. Particular stand-outs for me were the poems "A Sad Child," "Bored," and "Shapechangers in Winter."
February 16, 2020
Epic collection. Or mythic, more like. Some classical rerubs, some autobio-mythics. Atwood has the voice and words and delivery, though some of her poems are by far more interesting to me than others. I especially like the sarky, darkly funny ones, always.
This book's one to re-explore, no doubt.
This book's one to re-explore, no doubt.
May 30, 2009
I must confess up front: while I'm a (perhaps too much so) devoted fan of Atwood's novels, from what I've read of her poetry, I'm just...not all that impressed. I always hear people talk about her powerful poetic voice and her wonderful turns of phrase, incredible emotion, and lingering images. For a poet working contemporaneously, however, with people like Anne Sexton, Maxine Kumin, Adrienne Rich, among many many other great poets working from the 60s onward, I don't think Atwood's poetry will stand the test of time. Her novels are incredible--she's clearly among our best living novelists, and I don't know what the contemporary canon would be like without novels like The Handmaid's Tale, Alias Grace, and Cat's Eye (again, among many others). Her poetry does very little for me.
For one thing, the powerful poetic voice? I think one of the most fascinating things about Atwood's poetry is that it is incredibly revealing of her sort of indecisiveness--which reads, unlike in her novels, as insecurity. I can't count the number of times she used this setup: "[descriptor:], or else, [some other unrelated descriptor:]"; [this:], or [that:]; you do [this:], or not." It was frustrating--I wanted her to make up her goddamn mind! Are these old women hiding behind their eyes, or their sofas? Did your father say that this kind of wood was fabulous, or didn't he? I recognize the same pattern in her novels, but there, the similar formula works well over long fiction, because it impels the reader to question their own conceptions of events and actions and emotions in the novels. In the poetry, it reads as a writer's self doubt, and inability to come up with a strong phrasing or decision.
Likewise, though Atwood often hits on really strong images or turns of phrase, just as often, she creates unmemorable ones--stack these two against one another: "The men [are:] excited by their show of hate / their own evil turned inside out like a glove, / and me wearing it" from 'Half Hanged Mary' and then "Let's talk about axes, / which kinds are good, / the many names of wood" from 'The Visit.' The first is actually fairly simple, but it stays with you. Basic emotions--hate, evil--have a lasting quality in her metaphor; the second, though barebones in a way that sort of fits its poem, could have been written by a third grader. I suppose my final verdict on this collection would be that it's just too hit-or-miss to be truly wonderful. There are standout poems, of course. Section ii is superb, with "Miss July Grows Older," "Manet's Olympia," and "Ava Gardner Reincarnated as a Magnolia" being truly, truly great poems. Likewise, "Half Hanged Mary" may be one of the most interesting poems I've read in the past year or so--it's just incredible. But these and the maybe seven or eight other incredible poems of the collection are lost in a sea of forgettable ones.
I think perhaps my issue is that Atwood seems to have a lot of trouble revealing bare emotion--being 'confessional,' so to speak. She seems to need to sublimate intimacy through a filter--fictional characters, myths, or fairytales--to get to the heart of the matter. Cat's Eye, for instance, is one of the most heartbreaking and visceral 'coming of age' sorts of books I've read--but though it's supposedly semi-autobiographical, there's a protective layer there. "Half Hanged Mary" is probably so great, at least in part, because it's close to Atwood--the poem describes her ancestor who was hung for witchcraft, and survived overnight--and distanced--it's not Atwood herself. Because for all the talk of the deeply felt poems about her father's death in this collection (part iv), I felt those were the *most* detached pieces in the book. They didn't touch me much at all. On the other hand, her gropings against Manet and mythological Daphne and Helen of Troy--those poems had hearts. They cut to the quick. If you like Atwood's poetry, this is a clearly accomplished collection--otherwise, check out sections ii and iii, and call it a day.
Also, I know this was harsher than it was meant to be. I recognize the skill here, but I just find her talents far better suited to novels. If you're unfamiliar with Atwood, I say start with her fiction.
For one thing, the powerful poetic voice? I think one of the most fascinating things about Atwood's poetry is that it is incredibly revealing of her sort of indecisiveness--which reads, unlike in her novels, as insecurity. I can't count the number of times she used this setup: "[descriptor:], or else, [some other unrelated descriptor:]"; [this:], or [that:]; you do [this:], or not." It was frustrating--I wanted her to make up her goddamn mind! Are these old women hiding behind their eyes, or their sofas? Did your father say that this kind of wood was fabulous, or didn't he? I recognize the same pattern in her novels, but there, the similar formula works well over long fiction, because it impels the reader to question their own conceptions of events and actions and emotions in the novels. In the poetry, it reads as a writer's self doubt, and inability to come up with a strong phrasing or decision.
Likewise, though Atwood often hits on really strong images or turns of phrase, just as often, she creates unmemorable ones--stack these two against one another: "The men [are:] excited by their show of hate / their own evil turned inside out like a glove, / and me wearing it" from 'Half Hanged Mary' and then "Let's talk about axes, / which kinds are good, / the many names of wood" from 'The Visit.' The first is actually fairly simple, but it stays with you. Basic emotions--hate, evil--have a lasting quality in her metaphor; the second, though barebones in a way that sort of fits its poem, could have been written by a third grader. I suppose my final verdict on this collection would be that it's just too hit-or-miss to be truly wonderful. There are standout poems, of course. Section ii is superb, with "Miss July Grows Older," "Manet's Olympia," and "Ava Gardner Reincarnated as a Magnolia" being truly, truly great poems. Likewise, "Half Hanged Mary" may be one of the most interesting poems I've read in the past year or so--it's just incredible. But these and the maybe seven or eight other incredible poems of the collection are lost in a sea of forgettable ones.
I think perhaps my issue is that Atwood seems to have a lot of trouble revealing bare emotion--being 'confessional,' so to speak. She seems to need to sublimate intimacy through a filter--fictional characters, myths, or fairytales--to get to the heart of the matter. Cat's Eye, for instance, is one of the most heartbreaking and visceral 'coming of age' sorts of books I've read--but though it's supposedly semi-autobiographical, there's a protective layer there. "Half Hanged Mary" is probably so great, at least in part, because it's close to Atwood--the poem describes her ancestor who was hung for witchcraft, and survived overnight--and distanced--it's not Atwood herself. Because for all the talk of the deeply felt poems about her father's death in this collection (part iv), I felt those were the *most* detached pieces in the book. They didn't touch me much at all. On the other hand, her gropings against Manet and mythological Daphne and Helen of Troy--those poems had hearts. They cut to the quick. If you like Atwood's poetry, this is a clearly accomplished collection--otherwise, check out sections ii and iii, and call it a day.
Also, I know this was harsher than it was meant to be. I recognize the skill here, but I just find her talents far better suited to novels. If you're unfamiliar with Atwood, I say start with her fiction.
December 29, 2014
I've never read any of Atwood's poetry until now, and I am very sorry it has taken me quite so long. Reminiscent of the loevly language found in "The Handmaid's Tale", but more personal. I do agree with one reviewer that there are poems especially in the second and third section of the collection that kind of veer off & are so surreal it's hard to follow, in comparison to the perhaps more concrete work that preceeds it, and closes the collection. I have to to say that the first section left me a little breathless, it was so achingly lovely, and by the end, I still feel as if I have hardly exhaled by the time I closed this gorgous collection. If you're a fan of Atwood at all, I would say read it, it is not too inaccessible for the poetry novice to grasp most of the collection. A perfect little read, I highly recommend.
June 30, 2016
I'm not a huge fan of Atwood's myth-inspired/persona poetry. It reads forced and pretentious to me. Similarly, I had little interest in the reimagining of her childhood after her father's death, almost attempting to build her own past into myth. There was one or two lines that really hit me but as a whole, at least 2/3 of the book were throwaway, that I would likely have no interest in reading again. That being said, the whole book is worth a handful of poems. It's all they need. The first section that is more concretely placed in reality and life/love/mind of a woman... an every day woman—not a mythological being—are perfect, retasted, rechewed, held softly in your mouth. Those I will read and reread.
January 2, 2016
This (so far) is my favorite book of Atwood’s poetry. I simply connected with this in so many ways! First of all it’s a beautiful little book; aesthetically it had me from the very first moment. And in the end it gave me more unmixed pleasure than any of her other volumes of poetry. So many of the poems spoke to me. They felt rich and mature and real with no facile silliness; there’s lots of intriguing oddness here, delightfully engaging puzzles as well, and some that made me cry. This is a lovely book of poetry, in every way possible, and I want to own it and read it all over again.
March 25, 2021
I have such an intensely complicated relationship with Margaret Atwood, I'm not sure in what way I can put it into words, especially to a productive end, if I do want to make some sense in my own mind as to where she and I are right now, in our long term relationship.
And it is indeed long term, I first read Cat's Eye perhaps 15 years ago (wow) and it completely shattered me, Margaret Atwood was my first twisted sister, without me even knowing she was one or that I had any.
I had read three more of her books before I hit The Handmaid's Tale and got so disappointed that I repressed Atwood's existence for a long time; even she could, would and had written commercially.
I approach her poems with apprehension and as per usual with a Poetry anthology, there are a handful of poems that hit the right spots, but some don't. Atwood writes egocentrically and intimately, these poems are the poems of a mature woman who has spent much time reflecting on grief, the passage of time, body v spirit, she paints challenging ideas of Goddesses of Death and puts one in the mindset of Helen of Troy.
Sometimes she is brilliant, sometimes she is confusing, sometimes she is infuriating. Twisted sister, indeed.
Marsh Languages
The languages of the dying suns
are themselves dying.
but even the word for this has been forgotten.
The mouth against the skin, vivid and fading,
can no longer speak both cherished and farewell.
It is now only a mouth, only skin.
There is no more longing.
***
Manet’s Olympia
There’s someone else in this room.
You, Monsieur Voyeur.
As for that object of yours
she’s seen those before, and better.
I, the head, am the only subject
of this picture.
You, Sir, are furniture.
Get stuffed.
***
Girl without Hands
Only a girl like this
can know what's happened to you.
If she were here she would
reach out her arms towards you now
and touch you
with her absent hands
and you would feel nothing, but you would be
touched at the same time.
Other Poems of interest: Sekhmet, A Visit, Romantic, The Ottawa River by Night.
And it is indeed long term, I first read Cat's Eye perhaps 15 years ago (wow) and it completely shattered me, Margaret Atwood was my first twisted sister, without me even knowing she was one or that I had any.
I had read three more of her books before I hit The Handmaid's Tale and got so disappointed that I repressed Atwood's existence for a long time; even she could, would and had written commercially.
I approach her poems with apprehension and as per usual with a Poetry anthology, there are a handful of poems that hit the right spots, but some don't. Atwood writes egocentrically and intimately, these poems are the poems of a mature woman who has spent much time reflecting on grief, the passage of time, body v spirit, she paints challenging ideas of Goddesses of Death and puts one in the mindset of Helen of Troy.
Sometimes she is brilliant, sometimes she is confusing, sometimes she is infuriating. Twisted sister, indeed.
Marsh Languages
The languages of the dying suns
are themselves dying.
but even the word for this has been forgotten.
The mouth against the skin, vivid and fading,
can no longer speak both cherished and farewell.
It is now only a mouth, only skin.
There is no more longing.
***
Manet’s Olympia
There’s someone else in this room.
You, Monsieur Voyeur.
As for that object of yours
she’s seen those before, and better.
I, the head, am the only subject
of this picture.
You, Sir, are furniture.
Get stuffed.
***
Girl without Hands
Only a girl like this
can know what's happened to you.
If she were here she would
reach out her arms towards you now
and touch you
with her absent hands
and you would feel nothing, but you would be
touched at the same time.
Other Poems of interest: Sekhmet, A Visit, Romantic, The Ottawa River by Night.
January 31, 2024
Good poems! Some intense topics!
Read
August 26, 2015An absolutely incandescent book of poems brimming with startling imagery and ideas of exquisite beauty. Reading her poems about her father's death make me less afraid to die and reading her poems about everything else make me less afraid to live. What higher praise can be given a book?
June 1, 2022
I like my poetry to go down like liquid gold or hard-to-swallow truths. Vuong does both at once, which is why he is my OG; but Atwood doesn’t do enough of either. Some of the poems in the collection felt like smoothed-over grit, others a little too heavy-handed. Or perhaps because they were about the slow, quiet explosion that is aging or the death of a parent- things I can’t relate to atm. I was able to appreciate her historical/ mythical retellings in a feminist lens though. Here are some notable poems, out of order:
- “Half-Hanged Mary� (hands down my favourite) and “Statutory� (horrifying imagery on death personified as nothingness)
- “Manet’s Olympia�: “I, the head, am the only subject/ of this picture./ You, Sir, are furniture./ Get stuffed� (reminiscent of this poem I studied about a female muse/ male artist- name is on the tip of my slippery-ass brain UGH)
- “Cressida to Troilus� and “Sekhmet�
- Also the one on nature/ Mother: “Marsh Languages� and “The Signer� on language/ body (don’t know why she separated these, best read in tandem I think)
- “Man in a Glacier�: “the first time we discovered/ we could not stop, or live backwards�
- “A Visit�: like going out with a whisper, a whimper/ death as delusion
Her poetry does hold a certain comfort to it, something I’ll come back to again and again. Or maybe I’ve just got Stockholm Syndrome. 3.65 stars I guess.
- “Half-Hanged Mary� (hands down my favourite) and “Statutory� (horrifying imagery on death personified as nothingness)
- “Manet’s Olympia�: “I, the head, am the only subject/ of this picture./ You, Sir, are furniture./ Get stuffed� (reminiscent of this poem I studied about a female muse/ male artist- name is on the tip of my slippery-ass brain UGH)
- “Cressida to Troilus� and “Sekhmet�
- Also the one on nature/ Mother: “Marsh Languages� and “The Signer� on language/ body (don’t know why she separated these, best read in tandem I think)
- “Man in a Glacier�: “the first time we discovered/ we could not stop, or live backwards�
- “A Visit�: like going out with a whisper, a whimper/ death as delusion
Her poetry does hold a certain comfort to it, something I’ll come back to again and again. Or maybe I’ve just got Stockholm Syndrome. 3.65 stars I guess.
January 17, 2022
"Shapechangers in winter" felt so familliar to me... like a dream you can't remember but know the feeling of, like a longing for someplace you've never been to and yet, it feels like home. It's like waking from a dream and realising you are crying but can't for the life of you grasp at to why... There is only this kind of pain in your chest and throat, a moment of not remembering how to breathe...
That's how this poem felt to me.
That's how this poem felt to me.
October 10, 2022
I am so late to the Margaret Atwood poetry train but this was so SO good. Pretty sad in the middle, made me scared about my parents dying 😩 but overall easy read + beautiful writing and definitely worth reading!!
May 17, 2023
There is something for everyone to reflect on within this collection of poetry which delves into the human experience of life, death and all that is in between and how we fit within the environment. I enjoyed pondering on a poem or two each morning.
September 16, 2024
i was debating between four and five stars but i didn’t understand some which is the only reason i gave it four stars. i hate poetry but i throughly enjoyed this book. it was incredibly well done and part 4 really got me. for once, the ib diploma program gave us a solid collection of poetry.
October 1, 2023
the moon /
doesn't care about its own /
craters and bruises. only we can regret /
the perishing of the burned place. /
only we could call it a wound.
doesn't care about its own /
craters and bruises. only we can regret /
the perishing of the burned place. /
only we could call it a wound.
September 17, 2024
easiest read of my life
February 23, 2024
This was truly incredible.
April 12, 2019
Marsh Languages
The dark soft languages are being silenced:
Mothertongue Mothertongue Mothertongue
falling one by one back into the moon.
Languages of marshes,
language of the roots of rushes tangled
together in the ooze,
marrow cells twinning themselves
inside the warm core of the bone:
pathways of hidden light in the body fade and wink out.
The sibilants and gutturals,
the cave languages, the half-light
forming at the back of the throat,
the mouth's damp velvet moulding
the lost syllable for 'I' that did not mean separate,
all are becoming sounds no longer
heard because no longer spoken,
and everything that could once be said in them has
ceased to exist.
The languages of the dying suns
are themselves dying,
but even the word for this has been forgotten.
The mouth against skin, vivid and fading,
can no longer speak both cherishing and farewell.
It is now only a mouth, only skin.
There is no more longing.
Translation was never possible.
Instead there was always only
conquest, the influx
of the language of hard nouns,
the language of metal,
the language of either/or,
the one language that has eaten all others.
The dark soft languages are being silenced:
Mothertongue Mothertongue Mothertongue
falling one by one back into the moon.
Languages of marshes,
language of the roots of rushes tangled
together in the ooze,
marrow cells twinning themselves
inside the warm core of the bone:
pathways of hidden light in the body fade and wink out.
The sibilants and gutturals,
the cave languages, the half-light
forming at the back of the throat,
the mouth's damp velvet moulding
the lost syllable for 'I' that did not mean separate,
all are becoming sounds no longer
heard because no longer spoken,
and everything that could once be said in them has
ceased to exist.
The languages of the dying suns
are themselves dying,
but even the word for this has been forgotten.
The mouth against skin, vivid and fading,
can no longer speak both cherishing and farewell.
It is now only a mouth, only skin.
There is no more longing.
Translation was never possible.
Instead there was always only
conquest, the influx
of the language of hard nouns,
the language of metal,
the language of either/or,
the one language that has eaten all others.
December 29, 2022
Wow what a dark and fascinating book of poetry. I love how she pulls themes from the past and historical people ( half-hanged Mary being a favorite) as well as writing about modern day life, grief, nature etc. wow what a great read. Five stars for sure !
October 16, 2024
4.5
"I don't ask why, because it is mostly the same.
Wars happen because people who start them think they can win."
"I don't ask why, because it is mostly the same.
Wars happen because people who start them think they can win."
September 23, 2020
I’d read that Atwood’s poetry was the source of poetry for Ruth in Louise Penny’s novels. This did not disappoint—these are beautifully written, challenging poems.
May 21, 2023
Atwood is an interesting poet. She’s not actually a poet in the same vein as Plath or Sexton, although her work reminds me of theirs. Her poems aren’t as metaphorically raw or as tightly constructed. Instead they are like big blobs of prose sliced into incongruently enjambed stanzas. I feel like her poetry is her free writing. It’s her sandbox. It’s where she rolls around in her (her character’s?) psyche and emotional debris and forms it into what will eventually be her novels and stories. These poems were written in the early 1990s in the era of Cat’s Eye and Robber Bride, and themes from those novels bubble up between the lines.
The first series of poems (she divides this slim volume into five sections) are all the inner musings of a middle aged woman waking up and realizing that “this is not my car or my life� (to coin a phrase). In “Waiting� she realizes that old age isn’t a monster in her closet or a freight train barreling down on her with “one pitiless glaring eye.� Instead it slides over her “like home,� which she then eerily connects to her childhood self kneeling on the funny papers in the “sulphury eggyolk� afternoon light, realizing that one day she too will be old. The inversion captures those hallucinations we all have (or perhaps it's just me and Atwood) when your consciousness divides and you see two selves–past and present–juxtaposed against a future racing at you like the streaking stars outside a space rocket.
Then there’s a section of dramatic monologues reminiscent of Anne Sexton’s fairy tale cycle, the best of which is the inner musings of the Egyptian goddess Sekhmet who is frozen in the MMA next to an unnamed Pharaoh. At the end this Goddess of War morphs into a grotesque mother figure who comes with “bandages in her mouth/ and the soft body of a woman,/ and lick you clean of fever,/ and pick your soul up by the nape of the neck/ and caress you into darkness and paradise.� Atwood crafts these eerie images of femaleness, subverting the expected and replacing it with something borderline grotesque–the mother with the goddess of war. Childhood and barren middle age. The result is this image of the female that is somewhat monstrous, ragged, and constantly in flux.
But by far my favorites are the series of poems about watching her father die. In “King Lear in Respite Care� the speaker (in the guise of Cordelia) holds her father’s hand, “she says, Did they feed you?/He says no,/ He says, Get me out of here,� and she can’t. These poems capture the agony of loss, of watching her father, the masculine, the strength of childhood, decay and decompose while she gazes on, impotent to slow time. And that’s the thread that holds all these poems together. Time unravels but paradoxically there are some points where it freezes only to make the frayed and decomposing edges more visible.
In the daylight we know
what’s gone is gone,
but at night it’s different.
Nothing gets finished,
not dying, not mourning;
the dead repeat themselves, like clumsy drunks
lurching sideways through the doors
we open to them in sleep;
these slurred guests never entirely welcome,
even those we have loved the most,
returning from where we shoved them
away too quickly:
from under the ground, from under the water,
they clutch at us, they clutch at us,
we won’t let go.
The first series of poems (she divides this slim volume into five sections) are all the inner musings of a middle aged woman waking up and realizing that “this is not my car or my life� (to coin a phrase). In “Waiting� she realizes that old age isn’t a monster in her closet or a freight train barreling down on her with “one pitiless glaring eye.� Instead it slides over her “like home,� which she then eerily connects to her childhood self kneeling on the funny papers in the “sulphury eggyolk� afternoon light, realizing that one day she too will be old. The inversion captures those hallucinations we all have (or perhaps it's just me and Atwood) when your consciousness divides and you see two selves–past and present–juxtaposed against a future racing at you like the streaking stars outside a space rocket.
Then there’s a section of dramatic monologues reminiscent of Anne Sexton’s fairy tale cycle, the best of which is the inner musings of the Egyptian goddess Sekhmet who is frozen in the MMA next to an unnamed Pharaoh. At the end this Goddess of War morphs into a grotesque mother figure who comes with “bandages in her mouth/ and the soft body of a woman,/ and lick you clean of fever,/ and pick your soul up by the nape of the neck/ and caress you into darkness and paradise.� Atwood crafts these eerie images of femaleness, subverting the expected and replacing it with something borderline grotesque–the mother with the goddess of war. Childhood and barren middle age. The result is this image of the female that is somewhat monstrous, ragged, and constantly in flux.
But by far my favorites are the series of poems about watching her father die. In “King Lear in Respite Care� the speaker (in the guise of Cordelia) holds her father’s hand, “she says, Did they feed you?/He says no,/ He says, Get me out of here,� and she can’t. These poems capture the agony of loss, of watching her father, the masculine, the strength of childhood, decay and decompose while she gazes on, impotent to slow time. And that’s the thread that holds all these poems together. Time unravels but paradoxically there are some points where it freezes only to make the frayed and decomposing edges more visible.
In the daylight we know
what’s gone is gone,
but at night it’s different.
Nothing gets finished,
not dying, not mourning;
the dead repeat themselves, like clumsy drunks
lurching sideways through the doors
we open to them in sleep;
these slurred guests never entirely welcome,
even those we have loved the most,
returning from where we shoved them
away too quickly:
from under the ground, from under the water,
they clutch at us, they clutch at us,
we won’t let go.
November 27, 2022
i will never emotionally recover from this.....
"it is strangely like home.
like your own home, fifty years ago,
in December, in the early evening
when the indoor light changed, from clear to clouded,
a clouded thick yellow, like sulphury egg yolk,
and the reading lamp was turned on
with its brown silk shade, its aroma
of hot copper, the living
room flickers in the smells of cooking dinner,
and you crouched on the hardwood floor, smudged elbows
and scaly winter knees on the funny papers,
listening to the radio, news of disasters
that made you feel safe,
like the voice of your mother
urging you yet again to set the table
you are doing your best to ignore,
and you realized for the first time
in your life that you would be old
some day, you would some day be
as old as you are now,
and the home you were reading the funnies in
by the thick yellow light, would be gone
with all the people in it, even you,
even you in your young, smudgy body
with its scent of newsprint and dirty
knees and washed cotton,
and you would have a different body
by then, an old murky one,
a stranger's body you could not even imagine,
and you would be lost and alone.
and now it is now
and the dark thing is here,
and after all it is nothing new;
it is only a memory, after all:
a memory of a fear,
a yellowing paper child's fear
you have long since forgotten
and that has now come true."
"it is strangely like home.
like your own home, fifty years ago,
in December, in the early evening
when the indoor light changed, from clear to clouded,
a clouded thick yellow, like sulphury egg yolk,
and the reading lamp was turned on
with its brown silk shade, its aroma
of hot copper, the living
room flickers in the smells of cooking dinner,
and you crouched on the hardwood floor, smudged elbows
and scaly winter knees on the funny papers,
listening to the radio, news of disasters
that made you feel safe,
like the voice of your mother
urging you yet again to set the table
you are doing your best to ignore,
and you realized for the first time
in your life that you would be old
some day, you would some day be
as old as you are now,
and the home you were reading the funnies in
by the thick yellow light, would be gone
with all the people in it, even you,
even you in your young, smudgy body
with its scent of newsprint and dirty
knees and washed cotton,
and you would have a different body
by then, an old murky one,
a stranger's body you could not even imagine,
and you would be lost and alone.
and now it is now
and the dark thing is here,
and after all it is nothing new;
it is only a memory, after all:
a memory of a fear,
a yellowing paper child's fear
you have long since forgotten
and that has now come true."
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