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,
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
You Fit Into Me
You fit into me like a hook into an eye a fish hook
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
Love is not a profession genteel or otherwise sex is not dentistry
Marriage is not a house or even a tent
The City Planners
Cruising these residential Sunday streets in dry August sunlight: what offends us is the sanities:
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
I'm thinking about you. What else can I say? The palm trees on the reverse are a delusion; so is the pink sand. What we have are the usual
What should we have taken
with us? We never could decide
on that; or what to wear,
or at what time of
year we should make the journey
So here we are in thin
raincoats and rubber boots