Margaret Atwood's reading at PWF 2008

It's not easy to be Half-Divine

Helene lived down the street from me when we were growing up. We used to sell Kool-Aid off her front porch, five cents a glass, and she always had to be the one to carry the glass down the steps, eyelids lowered and with that pink bow in her hair, and mincing along like she was walking on eggs. I think she palmed a few nickels, being hardly the most honest type. I know she's famous and all now, but quite frankly she was a pain in the butt then and still is. She used to tell the worst lies -- said her dad was somebody really high up, not the Pope but close, and of course we teased her about that. Not that this so called big shot ever showed his face. Her mum was just another single mother, as they call them now, but my own mum says they had another name for it once. She said they had goings-on at night around there, naturally, since every man in town thought it was being handed out for free. Used to throw pebbles at the door, shout names and howl a bit when they got drunk. The two boys, Helen's brothers -- they were pretty wild, they took off early.

When she was ten, Helen went through a circus phase -- liked to dress up, thought she'd be a trapeze artist -- then she got close with the woman who ran the beauty salon, used to do her hair for her and give her product samples, and then she started drawing black rims around her eyes and hanging around the bus station. Fishing for a ticket out of town, is my guess. She was good-looking -- I'll grant her that -- so it wasn't surprising she got married early, to the police chief, a prime catch for both of them as he was pushing forty.

Then just a few months ago she ran off with some man from the city who was passing through. Didn't need the bus ticket after all, he had his own car, quite the boat. Hubby's pissed as hell; he's talking about a posse, go into the city, smoke them out, beat the guy up, get her back, smack her around a bit. A lot of men wouldn't bother, with a tramp like that; but it seems he doesn't believe in divorce, says somebody has to stand for the right values.

Personally I think he's still nuts about her and anyway his pride is hurt. Trouble is she's flaunting it -- the new man's quite well off, set her up in some sort of mansion, her picture gets in magazines and people asking about her opinions, it's enough to make you sick. So there she is, all diddied up in her new pearl necklace and smiling away as sweet as pie and saying how happy she is in her new life, and how every woman should follow her heart. Says it wasn't easy when she was growing up, being half-divine and all, but now she's come to terms with it and she's looking at a career in the movies. Says she was too young to get married that first time but now she knows how fulfilling love can be, and the chief wasn't, well, he just wasn't. Of course everyone thinks she's saying he was a nothing in the sack department, so there's been some snickering up the sleeves, though not openly because he's still got a lot of clout in this town.

The long and the short of it is, pardon my pun, nobody likes to be laughed at. The chief's from a big family, a brother and a lot of cousins, all of them with muscles and tempers. My bet is things will get serious. It's worth watching.

Faster

Walking was not fast enough, so we ran. Running was not fast enough, so we galloped. Galloping was not fast enough, so we sailed. Sailing was not fast enough, so we rolled merrily along on the long metal tracks. Long metal tracks were not fast enough, so we drove. Driving was not fast enough, so we flew.
Flying isn't fast enough, not fast enough for us. We want to get there faster. Get where? Wherever we are not. But a human soul can only go as fast as a man can walk, they used to say. In that case, where are all the souls? Left behind. They wander here and there, slowly, dim lights flickering in the marshes at night, looking for us. But they're not nearly fast enough, not for us, we're way ahead of them, they'll never catch up. That's why we can go so fast: our souls don't weigh us down.



The poets hang on

The poets hang on.
Iťs hard to get rid of them,
though lord knows iťs been tried.
We pass them on the road
standing there with their begging bowls,
an ancient custom.
Nothing in those now
but dried flies and bad pennies.
They stare straight ahead.
Are they dead, or what?
Yet they have the irritating look
of those who know more than we do.

More of what?
What is it they claim to know?
Spit it out, we hiss at them.
Say it plain!
If you try for a simple answer,
thaťs when they pretend to be crazy,
or else drunk, or else poor.
They put those costumes on
some time ago,
those black sweaters, those tatters;
now they can't get them off.
And they're having trouble with their teeth.
Thaťs one of their burdens.
They could use some dental work.

They're having trouble with their wings, as well.
We're not getting much from them
in the flight department these days.
No more soaring, no radiance,
no skylarking.
What the hell are they paid for?
(Suppose they are paid.)
They can't get off the ground,
them and their muddy feathers.
If they fly, iťs downwards,
into the damp grey earth.

Go away, we say —
and take your boring sadness.
You're not wanted here.
You´ve forgotten how to tell us
how sublime we are.
How love is the answer:
we always liked that one.
You´ve forgotten how to kiss up.
You're not wise any more.
You´ve lost your splendour.


But the poets hang on.
They're nothing if not tenacious.
They can't sing, they can't fly.
They only hop and croak
and bash themselves against the air
as if in cages,
and tell the odd tired joke.
When asked about it, they say
they speak what they must.
Cripes, they're pretentious.

They know something, though.
They do know something.
Something they're whispering,
something we can't quite hear.
Is it about sex?
Is it about dust?
Is it about fear?



War photo

The dead woman thrown down on the dusty road
is very beautiful.
One leg extended, the other flexed, foot pointed
towards the knee, the arm flung overhead, the hand
relaxed into a lovely gesture
a dancer might well study for years
and never attain.
Her purple robe is shaped
as if it's fluttering;
her head is turned away.

There are other dead people scattered around
like trees blown over,
left in the wake of frightened men
battering their way to some huge purpose
they can't now exactly remember,

But it's this beautiful woman who holds me,
dancing there on the ground
with such perfection.

Oh dead beautiful woman, if anyone
had the power to wrench me through despair
and arid helplessness
into the heart of prayer,
it would be you –

Instead I'll make for you
the only thing I can:
although I'll never know your name,
I won't ever forget you.
Look: on the dusty ground
under my hand, on this cheap grey paper,
I'm placing a small stone, here:
o



At brute point

The old people descend the hill in slow motion.
It's a windy hill,
a hill of treacheries and pebbles,
and twisted ankles.

One has a stick, one not.
Their clothing is bizarre,
though wash and wear.

Foot over foot they go,
down the eroded slope,
flapping like sails.
They want to get down to the ocean,
and they accomplish this.

(Could it be that we are the old people
already?
Surely not.
Not with such hats.)

We may have been here before;
at least it looks familiar,
but we are drawn to hills like these,
remote, bleak, old history,
nothing but stones.

Down by the tidal pool
there are two plastic bottles
a few small molluscs.

One person pees in a corner
out of the sun,
the other, not.

At this point, once, there might have been sex
with the waves rampaging in
as if in films.

But we stay fully clothed,
talk about rocks:
how did it get this way, the mix
of igneous and sandstone?
There's mica too, that glitter.

It's not sad. It's bright
and clear.
See how spryly we climb back up,
one claw and then the other.