Poetry Madness: Round Two

A  Sad Child

by Margaret Atwood

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.

Forget what?

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 smear,

and said to yourself in the bathroom,

I am not the favorite child.

My darling, when it comes

right down to it

and the light fails and the fog rolls in

and you're trapped in your overturned body

under a blanket or burning car,

and the red flame is seeping out of you

and igniting the tarmac beside you head

or else the floor, or else the pillow,

none of us is;

or else we all are.

Poetry Madness- Round One

Helen of Troy Does Countertop Dancing

by Margaret Atwood

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
and a day job.
Right. And minimum wage,
and varicose veins, just standing
in one place for eight hours
behind a glass counter
bundled up to the neck, instead of
naked as a meat sandwich.
Selling gloves, or something.
Instead of what I do sell.
You have to have talent
to peddle a thing so nebulous
and without material form.
Exploited, they'd say. Yes, any way
you cut it, but I've a choice
of how, and I'll take the money.

I do give value.
Like preachers, I sell vision,
like perfume ads, desire
or its facsimile. Like jokes
or war, it's all in the timing.
I sell men back their worse suspicions:
that everything's for sale,
and piecemeal. They gaze at me and see
a chain-saw murder just before it happens,
when thigh, ass, inkblot, crevice, tit, and nipple
are still connected.
Such hatred leaps in them,
my beery worshippers! That, or a bleary
hopeless love. Seeing the rows of heads
and upturned eyes, imploring
but ready to snap at my ankles,
I understand floods and earthquakes, and the urge
to step on ants. I keep the beat,
and dance for them because
they can't. The music smells like foxes,
crisp as heated metal
searing the nostrils
or humid as August, hazy and languorous
as a looted city the day after,
when all the rape's been done
already, and the killing,
and the survivors wander around
looking for garbage
to eat, and there's only a bleak exhaustion.
Speaking of which, it's the smiling
tires me out the most.
This, and the pretence
that I can't hear them.
And I can't, because I'm after all
a foreigner to them.
The speech here is all warty gutturals,
obvious as a slab of ham,
but I come from the province of the gods
where meanings are lilting and oblique.
I don't let on to everyone,
but lean close, and I'll whisper:
My mother was raped by a holy swan.
You believe that? You can take me out to dinner.
That's what we tell all the husbands.
There sure are a lot of dangerous birds around.

Not that anyone here
but you would understand.
The rest of them would like to watch me
and feel nothing. Reduce me to components
as in a clock factory or abattoir.
Crush out the mystery.
Wall me up alive
in my own body.
They'd like to see through me,
but nothing is more opaque
than absolute transparency.
Look--my feet don't hit the marble!
Like breath or a balloon, I'm rising,
I hover six inches in the air
in my blazing swan-egg of light.
You think I'm not a goddess?
Try me.
This is a torch song.
Touch me and you'll burn.

oh, how I have not missed blogging

On a gloomy Sunday morning I begrudgingly rolled out of bed and headed out into the fog to self-reflect. Clad in an unfortunate ensemble of the only clothes I'd thought to pack (pom-pom hat, relic-of-the-nineties windbreaker, sweatpants, and aqua-socks included) I was grateful that the island was nearly deserted. Having spent the past six months avoiding the big "what comes next" question like the plague, this was admittedly not an ideal assignment for me. However, in the best interest of my grade I bundled up and resolved to think about some stuff. On my walk, in addition to some deep contemplation of personal issues (I'll get back to those), I found myself marveling at the scenery around me. Not particularly spectacular or aesthetically pleasing, especially in dense fog, but refreshing in a bracing and chilly sort of way. This is the location of so many fond childhood memories: countless icy swims, clam digs, bonfires, camp-outs, and  canoe rides.  Now I'm trudging along the same shore with eighteen years of memories in my heart pondering my future endeavors and innermost thoughts. It is a wonderfully calming feeling to know that I have always had and always will have a place of sanctuary and seclusion especially in this season of great change and uncertainty.

*WARNING: the rest of this has absolutely nothing to do with the accompanying pictures*

 I also thought about myself a great deal. I thought about all the things that dominate my life, that I obsess over: my attitude, my intelligence, my physical flaws, my emotional shortcomings, the way I view others, and  how I am perceived. Some of which I have control over, others I don't. Any sort of introspective activity usually sends me into a downward spiral of negative and self-deprecating  thinking, so I shifted my focus in a bit of a preemptive strike.
 Then, because this assignment is inherently spiritual, I reflected on my rather non-existent walk with Christ. I took a good look at the overall skepticism and indifference that influence my perspective of religious activity and spirituality and how little I am bothered my lack of faith and interest.
And then I thought about how content I am with all of that. I think I've finally reached that place in life where I realize that I am always going to have stuff to work on. I'm never going to be perfectly happy all the time and my life will never go exactly the way I want it to, but whose does?  I'll always have problems and doubts and anxiety and baggage and insecurities. Who I am right now is imperfect and impulsive. I'm terrified and excited for my future at the same time and that's okay. I don't have to pick just one emotion to feel about this whole growing up business because, after all, complex people are the most interesting.