eating fire

     In the first week of February, I suffered from gastric flu and haven't quite recovered. I suspect it all boils down to stress really and a need to learn to let go. In the small breaks I have, I try to read; but then come up against my frustrating library system (non-existent). I have a glass cabinet full of books and two large wooden compartments under my bed filled with stacks and stacks of books. I can never find the books I want to read. 

   I decided to read "Eating Fire" by Margaret Atwood again; a book I've returned to again and again over the years. I bought it in Utrecht, in the first week of September 2008. I still remember that it was the first bookstore we came across, full of used books, I was exhilarated. The book was on the highest shelf and ZM had taken it down for me. That was the first day we met. 

   Eating Fire is one of the most accessible poetry collections I've ever come across, and the beauty of it is that it has stood the test of time (or approximately four plus years).  I don't profess to liking everything I read in this book, but every time I re-visit it - there will be the familiar landmarks showing no sign of wear and tear and new signposts asking you to linger longer. Those small turn of phrases that kill you - "your kiss no longer literature/ but fine print, a set of instructions". Re-reading an old favourite is always a good snapshot of your inner self - certain things may no longer have the same hold on you, but you never leave unaffected. 

  Here are some lovely bits from a poem I didn't use to like, "Their Attitudes Differ":

...

iii

You held out your hand

I took your fingerprints

You asked for love 

I gave you only descriptions 

Please die I said 

so I can write about it 

After all you are quite 

ordinary: 2 arms 2 legs

a head, a reasonable 

body, toes & fingers, a few 

eccentricities, a few honesties

but not too many, too many 

postponements & regrets but 

you'll adjust to it, meeting 

deadlines and other 

people, pretending to love

the wrong woman some of the

time, listening to your brain

shrink, your diaries

expanding as you grow older, 

growing older, of course you'll 

die but not yet, you'll outlive 

even my distortions of you 

... 

i

We are hard on each other 

and call it honesty,

choosing our jagged truths 

with care and aiming them across 

the neutral table. 

The things we say are

true; it is our crooked

aims, our choices

turn them criminal. 

ii

Of course your lies

are more amusing: 

you make them new each time. 

Your truths, painful and boring 

repeat themselves over & over 

perhaps because you own

so few of them.

iii

A truth should exist,

it should not be be used

like this. If I love you

is that a fact or a weapon?