Post by luceluna on Jan 28, 2002 1:00:58 GMT -5
(i did some major book-shopping when i was in sydney, mostly poetry. i got some Neruda, some cummings and some Margaret Atwood. Atwood is one of my best-loved novelists, and although i find some of her work less than satisfying, Eating Fire (a collection of her verse from the past thrity years, and the full transcript of her most recent collection) has now taken up pride of place on one of my many bookshelves.
the piece below is strongly reminiscent of Atwood's debut novel, Surfacing, which is coincidentally my favorite work of hers.)
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.
The fork which was melted scrapes against
the bowl which was melted also.
No one else is around.
Where have they gone to, brother and sister,
mother and father? Off along the shore,
perhaps. Their clothes are still on the hangers,
their dishes piled beside the sink,
which is beside the woodstove
with its grate and sooty kettle,
every detail clear,
tin cup and rippled mirror.
The day is bright and songless,
the lake is blue, the forest watchful.
In the east a bank of cloud
rises up silently like dark bread.
I can see the flaws in the glass,
those flares where the sun hits them.
I can't see my own arms and legs
or know if this is a trap or blessing,
finding myself back here, where everything
in this house has long been over,
kettle and mirror, fork and bowl,
including my own body,
including the body I had then,
including the body I have now
as I sit at this morning table, alone and happy,
bare child's feet on the scorched floorboards
(I can almost see)
in my burning clothes, the thin green shorts
and grubby yellow T-shirt
holding my cindery, non-existent,
radiant flesh. Incandescent.
the piece below is strongly reminiscent of Atwood's debut novel, Surfacing, which is coincidentally my favorite work of hers.)
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.
The fork which was melted scrapes against
the bowl which was melted also.
No one else is around.
Where have they gone to, brother and sister,
mother and father? Off along the shore,
perhaps. Their clothes are still on the hangers,
their dishes piled beside the sink,
which is beside the woodstove
with its grate and sooty kettle,
every detail clear,
tin cup and rippled mirror.
The day is bright and songless,
the lake is blue, the forest watchful.
In the east a bank of cloud
rises up silently like dark bread.
I can see the flaws in the glass,
those flares where the sun hits them.
I can't see my own arms and legs
or know if this is a trap or blessing,
finding myself back here, where everything
in this house has long been over,
kettle and mirror, fork and bowl,
including my own body,
including the body I had then,
including the body I have now
as I sit at this morning table, alone and happy,
bare child's feet on the scorched floorboards
(I can almost see)
in my burning clothes, the thin green shorts
and grubby yellow T-shirt
holding my cindery, non-existent,
radiant flesh. Incandescent.