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On reading Margaret Atwood's selected poetry-'Eating Fire'

Winters can be tedious.

Sun dips into early dusk.

A dead fire refuses to ignite.

 

There's a quick repetition

of opening and closing blinds

over a barred window.

 

In need of reflection

I search a familiar face

in an unfamiliar landscape.

 

I have her in my grasp,

half illusion, half real,

a symbolic mask denies

her true face,

 

her glittering crown

divides us by its radiance.

 

Groping in darkness,

I stumble over objects

of wood and stone,

my unsteady tread tripping

over their contours.

 

I light a candle.

 

Bathed in amber light,

our shadows merge.

 

A new door opens,

stretching the perspective.

No formal borders here,

they wouldn't survive

the present climate.

 

In their place,

intricately carved

figureheads and totems-

a vision of the past.

 

My eye is a camera,

retinas branded with imagery

for the photographer's delight-

coloured pebbles, carved wooden animals,

tin cans, bones.....

 

....A Glass Sentinel

(though she isn't visible)

I can see right through her-

a vision of smokescreens

and subterfuge.

 

Past stumps of driftwood,

past the uncut grass,

a few flowers...

 

...to the fabricated backdrop

of a burning house, black smoke

rising

in

a

thin

stream.

 

At the open door -

The Guardian,

(I know her inside out)

unmoved,

(she didn't bat an eye)

defiant in a new skin,

a softer version-

The Mother protecting her children,

arms splayed, prepared

for fight or flight.

 

A russet flame

Licking her spine exhales

'Get out of my way!'

but she wasn't listening.

 

Smile fixed,

eyes of a phoenix,

a lion,

a raptor,

protector.

We all need feeding,

but not this way!

 

Throw me a cloth,

a napkin,

a man-size tissue

a lifeline!

 

She wanted this,

no, wished it-

this symbolism,

this burning of ironic portraits,

to clear the deck,

make way for new.

 

It shook the house,

its fate sealed behind closed doors.

 

I compose myself,

pull her back from the perilous edge,

gather her in my arms.

 

Fragments of shattered words

flutter in the ether.

 

What is real?

What is fiction?

A carbon copy of thousands?

A charred corner?

 

A forgotten candle?

 

 

 

 

 

 

WARNING:

'Eating fire' is a risky business

but can attract a large audience.

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Written by
caroline-grace
English
Published
Jul 12, 2014
Lines·Words
98·359
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