In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:

  • Three Poems
  • Margaret Atwood (bio)

War Photo

The dead woman thrown down on the dusty road is very beautiful.One leg extended, the other flexed, foot pointedtoward the knee, the arm flung overhead, the handrelaxed into a lovely gesturea dancer might well study for yearsand never attain.Her purple robe is shapedas if it's fluttering;her head is turned away.

There are other dead people scattered aroundlike trees blown over,left in the wake of frightened menbattering their way to some huge purposethey can't now exactly remember.

But it's this beautiful woman who holds me,dancing there on the groundwith such perfection.

Oh dead beautiful woman, if anyonehad the power to wrench me through despairand arid helplessnessinto the heart of prayer,it would be you—

Instead I'll make for youthe only thing I can:although I'll never know your name,I won't ever forget you. [End Page 19]

Look: on the dusty groundunder my hand, on this cheap gray paper,I'm placing a small stone, here:   o

War Photo 2

Even if you had remained alive,we would never have spoken.Suppose we'd shared a road,a car, a bench, a table—

Maybe you would have offered mea piece of bread, a slice of lemon.Or else there would have been suspicion,or fear, or nothing.

Now though it seems I am askingand you are answering:

Why is the tree dying?   It is dying for lack of truth.

Who has blocked up the wells of truth?   Those with the guns.

What if they kill all those with no guns?   Then they will kill one another.

When will there be compassion?   When the dead tree flowers.

When will the dead tree flower?   When you take my hand.

This is the kind of thingthat goes on only in poetry.You are right to be suspicious of me:I can't speak your absence for you.

(Why is it then I can hear you so clearly?) [End Page 20]

Enough of these discouragements

Enough of these discouragements,you said. Enough gnawed skulls.Why all these red wet ticketsto the pain theatricals?Why these boxfuls of ruin?Whole big-block warehouses full.Why can't you tell about flowers?

But I did tell, I answer.Petal by petal, snowdrop and roseunfolding in season, I told them all—the leaf, the stem, the intricate bloom—I praised each one in its turn.I told about sunsets, as well,and silvery dawns, and noons.I told about young menplaying their flutes beside poolsand young girls dancing.I raised up fountains, golden pears:such gentle miracles.

You didn't want them,these pastel flavours.You were bored by them.

You wanted the hard news,the blows of hammers,bodies slammed through the air.You wanted weaponry,the glare of sun on metal,the cities toppled, the dust ascending,the leaden thud of judgment.You wanted fire.

Despite my singed feathersand this tattered scroll I haul around,I'm not an angel.I'm only a shadow,the shadow of your desires.I'm only a granter of wishes.Now you have yours. [End Page 21]

Margaret Atwood

Margaret Atwood is the author of more than forty books of fiction, poetry, and critical essays. Her most recent publications are Moral Disorder, a collection of interconnected short stories, and The Door, a collection of poetry (both 2007). Her novel Oryx and Crake was short-listed for the 2003 Man Booker Prize and the Giller Prize in Canada. Her other books include the 2000 Booker Prize–winning The Blind Assassin; Alias Grace, which won the Giller Prize in Canada and the Premio Mondello in Italy; The Robber Bride; Cat's Eye; The Handmaid's Tale; The Penelopiad; and The Tent. She lives in Toronto, Canada, with writer Graeme Gibson.

...

pdf

Share