Margaret Atwood Poems
|1.||Death of a Young Son by Drowning||6/23/2015|
|2.||The Circle Game||9/8/2015|
|4.||They Eat Out||10/21/2006|
|5.||Backdropp Addresses Cowboy||1/2/2004|
|7.||The Shadow Voice||1/2/2004|
|11.||In The Secular Night||1/3/2003|
|12.||Sekhmet, The Lion-Headed Goddess Of War||1/3/2003|
|14.||More And More||1/3/2003|
|16.||Flying Inside Your Own Body||1/3/2003|
|17.||Variations On The Word Love||1/3/2003|
|18.||The City Planners||1/3/2003|
|21.||Morning In The Burned House||1/20/2003|
|22.||Variation On The Word Sleep||1/13/2003|
|25.||This Is A Photograph Of Me||1/3/2003|
|27.||Helen Of Troy Does Countertop Dancing||1/20/2003|
|28.||You Fit Into Me||1/3/2003|
|30.||A Sad Child||1/3/2003|
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
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.
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 ...
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.