Morning in the Burned House. Margaret Atwood. Poetry

Margaret Atwood is a poet, novelist, story writer, essayist, and environmental activist. Her books have received critical acclaim in the United States, Europe, and her native Canada, and she has received numerous literary awards, including the Booker Prize, the Arthur C. Clarke Award, and the Governor General’s Award, twice. Atwood’s work has been translated into many languages and published in more than twenty-five countries. Among her numerous honors and awards are a Guggenheim Fellowship, a Molson Award, the Ida Nudel Humanitarian Award, and a Canada Short Fiction Award. In 1986 Ms Magazine named her Woman of the Year.

She has served as a Writer-In-Residence and a lecturer at many colleges and universities. Margaret Atwood lives in Toronto.
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In Search of the Goddess. Robert Graves. Poetry.

robert Graves

robert Graves
From Wiki
Robert Graves) (24 July 1895 – 7 December 1985) was an English poet, scholar/translator/writer of antiquity specializing in Classical Greece and Rome, novelist and soldier in World War One. During his long life he produced more than 140 works.
During his lifetime he published more than 140 books, including fifty-five collections of poetry (he reworked his Collected Poems repeatedly during his career), fifteen novels, ten translations, and forty works of nonfiction, autobiography, and literary essays. From 1961 to 1966, Graves returned to England to serve as a professor of poetry at Oxford.

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Astatine in a Fantastic Car Crash

Astatine in a Fantastic Car Crash

by Janet Kuypers

from the “ Periodic Table of Poetry” series

And our life is one big road trip now,
and we set the cruise control
and make our way down the expressway.

And most of the time we’re just moving
in a straight line, and the scenery
blurs. There’s nothing to see.

But I know what’s inside of you
and I know what you’re made of.
There’s no such thing as a calm with you.

You are a fantastic car crash.
You stop traffic in both directions —
In your twisted way, you come from the decay

of others… And what do you leave
in your wake? More radioactive destruction,
as all around you slows down to stare,

and all the gapers gawk, as the decay grows.

Everything shatters with you, you know.
It’s a spectacular explosion,
until your instability corrodes you down

to the basics in the world. And yeah,
what was left of you after you were gone
is so much more stable than what you were,

but still, I’d duck and cover
as metal flies through the air. Every time
you leave the scene of the accident,

I am left picking up the shards of glass
from the windows. You know, the glass breaks
into such tiny little pieces. They look like ice.

It takes so long to pick up the pieces,
and even though I’m careful,
I’m still picking up the pieces

after dealing with only fractional amounts of you.
I’ve only been able to infer what you’re like
by knowing your brethren,

while I’m stuck here, picking up the pieces,
and I’m still on my knees.
The glass cuts into my hands,

because it was only after so much
of your destruction that you left blood
drip
ping down to the street
.

think of this as your contribution,
this radioactive short-term flash of decay

think of this as your contribution

to this fantastic car crash
that is you, that is me,
that is us.

I’ve tried to learn, I’ve tried to study
these microscopic parts of you
to make sense of you…

But whether or not you ever leave enough,
despite your destruction,
despite this decay of yours,

I have to keep reminding myself
that when it comes to you,
This is what you do.

This happens all the time.
So,
I to pull the glass from my hands

and I wave my hand to the line of traffic:
go ahead, keep driving, this happens
all the time, there’s nothing to see here.