This is the lair of the landlady
a raw voice
loose in the rooms beneath me.
the continuous henyard
squabble going on below
thought in this house like
the bicker of blood through the head.
She is everywhere, intrusive as the smells
that bulge in under my doorsill;
she presides over my
meagre eating, generates
the light for eyestrain.
From her I rent my time:
my days like doors.
Nothing is mine.
and when I dream images
of daring escapes through the snow
I find myself walking
always over a vast face
which is the land-
lady's, and wake up shouting.
She is a bulk, a knot
swollen in a space. Though I have tried
to find some way around
her, my senses
are cluttered by perception
and can't see through her.
She stands there, a raucous fact
blocking my way:
immutable, a slab
of what is real.
solid as bacon.
par Margaret Atwood, publié le mar. 15/11/2011 à 02:48
Marriage is not
a house or even a tent
it is before that, and colder:
The edge of the forest, the edge
of the desert
par Margaret Atwood, publié le ven. 12/08/2011 à 18:22
I would like to watch you sleeping,
which may not happen.
I would like to watch you,
sleeping. I would like to sleep
par Margaret Atwood, publié le mer. 06/04/2011 à 13:55
More and more frequently the edges
of me dissolve and I become
a wish to assimilate the world, including
par Margaret Atwood, publié le mer. 02/03/2011 à 19:08
I'm thinking about you. What else can I say?
The palm trees on the reverse
are a delusion; so is the pink sand.
par Margaret Atwood, publié le dim. 20/02/2011 à 01:20
The rest of us watch from beyond the fence
as the woman moves with her jagged stride
into her pain as if into a slow race.