Margaret Atwood is one of those authors whom many seem to love and venerate as a grande dame of Canadian literature, but I have never genuflected at her shrine. I must admit though, that there is something about her poetry that is very powerful, albeit disturbing.
It is full of animals that slink, bodies that are mutilated or raped, attacked by suffering, old age, death and decay. Natural forces like sun, wind, water and fire threaten and invade. People and memories fade but refuse to disappear. The poems are tinged with violence, protest, sex, regret, nostalgia, wisdom, cynicism. Atwood's voice is not happy or sweet, but it is articulate and insistent. It demands to be heard and will not submit to being silenced.