Biography of Margaret Atwood
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. Many of her poems have been inspired by myths and fairy tales, which have been interests of hers from an early age. 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.
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Margaret Atwood Poems
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
The moment when, after many years of hard work and a long voyage you stand in the centre of your room, house, half-acre, square mile, island, country,
You Fit Into Me
You fit into me like a hook into an eye a fish hook
Helen Of Troy Does Countertop Dancing
The world is full of women who'd tell me I should be ashamed of myself if they had the chance. Quit dancing. Get some self-respect
Love is not a profession genteel or otherwise sex is not dentistry
All those times I was bored out of my mind. Holding the log while he sawed it. Holding the string while he measured, boards,
This is the one song everyone would like to learn: the song that is irresistible:
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
Variation On The Word Sleep
I would like to watch you sleeping, which may not happen. I would like to watch you, sleeping. I would like to sleep
Marriage is not a house or even a tent
Morning In The Burned House
In the burned house I am eating breakfast. You understand: there is no house, there is no breakfast, yet here I am.
Gone are the days when you could walk on water. When you could walk.
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
The City Planners
Cruising these residential Sunday streets in dry August sunlight: what offends us is the sanities:
The rest of us watch from beyond the fence
as the woman moves with her jagged stride
into her pain as if into a slow race.
We see her body in motion
but hear no sounds, or we hear
sounds but no language; or we know
it is not a language we know
yet. We can see her clearly
but for her it is running in black smoke.