Most people know Margaret Atwood for her fiction, Surfacing, Cat’s Eye, The Handmaid’s Tale, Alias Grace, Oryx and Crake and others, enough to keep you busy reading for months. But did you know Atwood also writes poetry?

Her poetry is as interesting and varied as her fiction and as thought-provoking. She is often political but rarely confessional. Her poems are not soft and lyrical, they are firm and solid. She takes subjects like feminism, war, or concern for the environment and brings them from the abstract concept to an everyday experience and understanding, a concrete vision and feeling. Take, for example, the poem “Against Still Life” from the book The Circle Game. The narrator is sitting at the kitchen table eating an orange, her lover sits across from her in silence

and you, man, orange afternoon
lover, wherever
you sit across from me
(tables, trains, buses)
if I watch
quietly enough
and long enough

at last, you will say
(maybe without speaking)

(there are mountains
inside your skull
garden and chaos, ocean
and hurricane; certain
corners of rooms, portraits
of great-grandmothers, curtains
of a particular shade;
your deserts; your private
dinosaurs; the first

all I need to know:
tell me
just as it was
from the beginning.

Atwood frequently uses history, myth, literature and art as the jumping off place for a poem as in “Speeches for Dr. Frankenstein,” “The Reincarnation of Captain Cook,” the poem cycle “Circe/Mud Poems,” “Marrying the Hangman” and “Letter from Persephone.” You don’t often find humor in Atwood’s poems, so perhaps that is why of all of these types of poems I am partial to “Manet’s Olympia” (picture here) from Morning in the Burned House:

She reclines, more or less.
Try that posture, it’s hardly languor.
Her right arm sharp angles.
With her left she conceals her ambush.
Shoes but not stockings,
how sinister. The flower
behind her ear is naturally
not real, of a piece
with the sofa’s drapery.
The windows (if any) are shut.
This is indoor sin.
Above the head of the (clothed) maid
is an invisible voice balloon: Slut.

But. Consider the body,
unfragile, defiant, the pale nipples
staring you right in the bull’s-eye.
Consider also the black ribbon
around the neck. What’s under it?
A fine red threadline, where the head
was taken off and glued back on.
The body’s on offer,
but the neck’s as far as it goes.
This is no morsel.
Put clothes on her and you’d have a schoolteacher,
the kind with the brittle whiphand.

There’s someone else in the room.
You, Monsieur Voyeur.
As for that object of yours
she’s seen those before, and better.

I, the head, am the only subject
of this picture.
You, Sir, are furniture.
Get stuffed.

As a poet she is also concerned with words and language, whose language, whose words:

Translation was never possible.
Instead there was always only
conquest, the influx
of the language of hard nouns,
the language of metal,
the language of either/or,
the one language that has eaten all the others.
(“Marsh Languages” from Morning in the Burned House)

She is concerned with how the words frame the world and make us who we are. She is concerned about the power of words and how we use them:

Our leader
is a man of water
with tinfoil skin.

He has two voices,
therefore two heads, four eyes,
two sets of genitals, eight
arms and legs and forty
toes and fingers.
Our leader is a spider,

he traps words.
They shrivel in his mouth,
he leaves the skins.

Most leaders speak
for themselves, then
for the people.

Who does our leader speak for?
How can you use two languages
and mean what you say in both?

No wonder our leader skuttles
sideways, melts in hot weather,
corrodes in the sea, reflects
light like a mirror,
splits our faces, our wishes,
is bitter.

Our leader is a monster
sewn from dead soldiers,
a Siamese twin.

Why should we complain?
He is ours and us,
we made him.
(“Two-Headed Poems, vii” from Two-Headed Poems)

Margaret Atwood’s poems sometimes move me to rage and move me to tears. Sometimes after I finish one I see the world a little differently. I think part five of “Notes Toward a Poem That Can Never Be Written” (True Stories) sums up the core of her poetic outpouring and maybe even her body of work, and is, I think, part of what makes her one of our best living writers:

The facts of this world seen clearly
are seen through tears;
why tell me then
there is something wrong with my eyes?

To see clearly and without flinching,
without turning away,
this is agony, the eyes taped open
two inches from the sun.

What is it you see then?
Is it a bad dream, a hallucination?
Is it a vision?
What is it you hear?

The razor across the eyeball
is a detail from an old film.
It is also a truth.
Witness is what you must bear.