Reviews for My poems

The average rating for My poems based on 2 reviews is 5 stars.

Review # 1 was written on 2012-04-27 00:00:00 Adam Doing I remember this book well. It was 2006: it was before lunch, it was October, it was raining a bit. I was at a workshop, we had a bit of a break, I was nervous and jittery and mooching off somebody's cigarette pack. I hoped buying a book would make me feel better. My favourite book shop at the time was allowed to set up a table outside the hall - maybe they heard that writers have been congregating here for the past two days - and I thought it was a pretty smart decision. We bought a lot of books that day. We also got pretty drunk that night. Years after: relationships dissolved, some ideals were let go of, the urge to write comes and goes, and yet this book remains. Written on April 27, 2007: While I never blamed my parents for putting me in such a position between the firstborn of the family (who acts like the youngest now) and my two youngest sisters, I do feel the brunt of it sometimes. Growing up I just taught myself not to care. I do find this the saddest thing, though, something which is a bit true (at least, for this family): “They tend to have fewer pictures in the family photo album alone, compared to firstborns.” (•) But because I’ve learned to live with it, and because I’ve long ago told myself that I cannot absolutely afford to get upset about things like this, I pull this poem out, like I’ve done a lot of times, and sit still, and keep quiet, and be okay:A Sad Child 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 favourite 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 your head or else the floor, or else the pillow, none of us is; or else we all are.

Review # 2 was written on 2017-08-09 00:00:00 Andrew Lauder Margaret Atwood speaks with candid authority in this collection, whether she is talking about love or war or the minutiae of the natural world. She is particularly eloquent about aging. From “Miss July Grows Older”-- “what you get is no longer what you see.” And from “King Lear in Respite Care”-- “Time is another element you never think about until it’s gone. Things like ceilings, or air.” We know she has the ability to take on many personas, and she shows quite a range here, from Helen of Troy to Ava Gardner. But still, it surprised me when she took on MY persona. In the poem “Waiting,” from the first line--“Here it is then, the dark thing,” it was clear she had somehow got inside my head and wrote about my thoughts and memories. Another remarkably rewarding read from the writer who over and over proves herself to be my favorite.