By Margaret Atwood
A gorgeous lyrical fulfillment and Atwood's first choice of new poems in over a decade.
The Door is Margaret Atwood's first ebook of poetry because the award-winning Morning within the Burned House (1995). Its fifty lucid but pressing poems variety in tone from lyric to ironic to meditative to prophetic, and in topic from the non-public to the political, seen in its broadest experience. They examine the mysterious writing of poetry itself, in addition to the passage of time and our shared experience of mortality. the gathering starts off with poems that think about the prior and ends with harbingers of items to come.
Brave and compassionate, The Door interrogates the certainties that we construct our lives on.
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Extra info for The Door
Example text
Carnations nod in a vase. She fingers the blown glass, its slender neck, the wet crystal lip and the room begins to hum 19 . 20 Qualities of Light The open-mouthed jar fills with light and brittle shadows. The lid is a tight fit— but this isn’t about escape, it’s about absence: bulbs blowing out, wings folding in on a lack. What I need is the stunned buzz of resurrection—lightning bugs stranded on cracked glass gravel, garden hose spraying small skeletons back to life, their sudden loft into night-blind air.
It’s smaller, and your sister is there on the other side of the screen, waiting to be told goodbye. It’s not as if you could hop on your bike and rush back to hug her, although that might enlarge the moment. Instead, the memory keeps shrinking, blinking off and on like fireflies she used to catch in a jar. Their pale light receded as you rode past your father watering the brittle grass full of the ends of other lives. Beyond that extinguished light, the memory of light; and behind that, the sound of your sister pushing through the screen, twisting open the jar.
22 Hindsight The thing about it is its size. It’s smaller, and your sister is there on the other side of the screen, waiting to be told goodbye. It’s not as if you could hop on your bike and rush back to hug her, although that might enlarge the moment. Instead, the memory keeps shrinking, blinking off and on like fireflies she used to catch in a jar. Their pale light receded as you rode past your father watering the brittle grass full of the ends of other lives. Beyond that extinguished light, the memory of light; and behind that, the sound of your sister pushing through the screen, twisting open the jar.