by Margaret Atwood
I need to add more women writers and writers of color to by queue, I admit.
I didn’t hate this book of poems, but my edition suffers from a terrible 70’s bold-seriffed font, making everything feel just slightly dated– not old enough to contain wisdom, not new enough to speak to now. This seems like a stupid quibble, but I really am a stickler for good typography in poetry books– I have to at least not hate it. I hated all the poems in Popshot Magazine, but I loved how they were laid out. Which is why I had a subscription for years. Poetry is, after all, aesthetic language.
The poems are personal, they seem to catalog a sort of bucolic 70’s (like I said: the font) that is faded like an old photograph of your parents when they were your age. They are explorations of relationships, almost love poems, and I don’t believe in love poems anymore.
I’ll try one of her novels next.