t h r e e languages r e p r e s e n t e d h e r e .
I n i t i a l l y s u c h a p u b l i c a t i o n m i g h t be
d e v o t e d t o women w r i t e r s , p a s t and
p r e s e n t . E v e n t u a l l y I hope i t would
i n c l u d e a sampling o f a l l good w r i t e r s
i n o u r hemisphere. And tomorrow t h e
w o r l d ! We can i n s i s t t h a t we a r e
c i t i z e n s o f the earth f i r s t , before
o t h e r l o y a l t i e s . And we can b e l i e v e
w i t h K a z a n t z a k l o s t h a t t h e flame o f
s p i r i t burns i n e v e r y p e r s o n and t h a t
the purpose o f l i f e i s t o keep t h a t
flame a l i v e t o i l l u m i n a t e t h e dark
passages o f our j o u r n e y .
Emma, i n C a r o l B o l t ' s Red Emma, has a
f i n e speech:
Emma: Woman's development, h e r freedom,
her independence must come from
and t h r o u g h h e r s e l f . F i r s t by
a s s e r t i n g h e r s e l f as a p e r s o n a l i t y and n o t a sex commodity.
Second by r e f u s i n g t h e r i g h t t o
anyone over h e r body, by r e f u s i n g
t o bear c h i l d r e n u n l e s s she wants
them, by r e f u s i n g t o be a s e r v a n t
t o God, t h e s t a t e , s o c i e t y , husband, t h e f a m i l y . By making h e r
l i f e s i m p l e r , b u t deeper and
r i c h e r . That i s by t r y i n g t o
l e a r n t h e meaning and substance
of l i f e i n a l l i t s c o m p l e x i t i e s ,
by f r e e i n g h e r s e l f from t h e f e a r
o f p u b l i c o p i n i o n and p u b l i c condemnation. Only t h a t w i l l s e t
woman f r e e , w i l l make h e r a f o r c e
h i t h e r t o unknown i n t h e w o r l d , a
f o r c e o f r e a l l o v e , f o r peace,
for harmony—a force of d i v i n e
f i r e , of l i f e - g i v i n g , a creator
o f f r e e men and women.
POETRY AND AUDIENCE
Elizabeth Brewster
I n some ways I f i n d i t e a s i e r t o answer q u e s t i o n s about p o e t r y i n poems
r a t h e r than i n p r o s e . A few y e a r s
ago I wrote a poem which answers some
o f t h e q u e s t i o n s p e o p l e most o f t e n ask
a f t e r poetry readings.
It's called
"Poem f o r an Audience o f One," and i t
goes l i k e t h i s :
POEM FOR AN AUDIENCE OF ONE
Why do you w r i t e ?
someone has asked me.
I s i t f o r fame o r f o r t u n e ?
Do you w i s h t o communicate
t o a l a r g e r audience?
Have you an i m p o r t a n t message?
I would l i k e t o s a y ,
though I don't,
t h a t I w r i t e f o r none o f these
reasons.
I am w r i t i n g now
t o p a s s t h e time
w h i l e I am w a i t i n g
f o r you t o t e l e p h o n e .
Of c o u r s e , t h e poem i s p a r t l y a joke
but i t ' s a l s o p a r t l y t r u e .
"Passing
the time" has o f t e n been a reason f o r
my w r i t i n g and many o f my poems have
been w r i t t e n i n p a r t f o r an audience
of one, o r p o s s i b l y two o r t h r e e , a l though I imagine a l a r g e r audience
over t h e s h o u l d e r s o f t h e audience o f
one.
My a t t i t u d e t o w r i t i n g poems can be
e x p l a i n e d by r e c a l l i n g my f i r s t a t tempts t o w r i t e . I began t o w r i t e as
a c h i l d , when I was growing up i n
r u r a l New Brunswick. We l i v e d on a
p o v e r t y - s t r i c k e n , i s o l a t e d farm d u r i n g
the m i d s t o f t h e D e p r e s s i o n . We were
some d i s t a n c e from neighbour c h i l d r e n
and my b r o t h e r s and s i s t e r s were a l l
o l d e r than I was. I s t a r t e d t o w r i t e
i n summer v a c a t i o n s because I was
bored and l o n e l y . A c t u a l l y , I wrote
prose f i r s t :
l i t t l e s t o r i e s and p l a y s ,
something t h a t I c a l l e d a n o v e l and a
d i a r y . The poems worked themselves
i n t o t h e s t o r i e s as t h e words o f songs;
or I wrote them i n t o t h e d i a r i e s because n o t h i n g happened and I wanted t o
f i l l t h e notebook.
I would say somet h i n g l i k e , " T h i s was a r a i n y day and
I wrote a poem about May. Here i t i s . "
And then I would copy o u t t h e poem.
A t f i r s t I d i d n ' t show what I was
w r i t i n g t o anybody and I was v e r y p r o t e c t i v e o f i t . One day I came home and
and found my s i s t e r r e a d i n g one o f my
l i t t l e s t o r i e s a l o u d t o my mother. I
was v e r y much u p s e t and went up t o my
room and h i d , I suppose f e e l i n g t h a t
my p r i v a c y had been i n t r u d e d upon. B u t
my mother and s i s t e r b o t h t o l d me how
much they l i k e d what I had w r i t t e n and
I had my f i r s t t a s t e o f applause. A f t e r t h a t , I suppose w r i t i n g c o u l d never
be c o m p l e t e l y p r i v a t e . But I s t i l l
f e e l t h a t poems a r e p e r s o n a l and i n t i m a t e , and t h e s e l f p r e s e n t e d i n them
i s more g e n u i n e l y my t r u e s e l f , whatever t h a t i s , t h a n t h e s e l f p r e s e n t e d
i n l e t t e r s o r c o n v e r s a t i o n . Poems a r e
e s s e n t i a l l y t r u e , even though t h e y may
be, i n some s e n s e s , a bunch o f l i e s .
In a poem I am i n p a r t j u s t t a l k i n g t o
m y s e l f (maybe f i n d i n g o u t about mys e l f ) , a l t h o u g h I am a l s o i n p a r t
t a l k i n g t o a f r i e n d o r a group o f
f r i e n d s , some p e r s o n o r p e r s o n s who
w i l l u n d e r s t a n d me and sympathize w i t h
me more c o m p l e t e l y than any f r i e n d o r
lover or s i s t e r or brother possibly
could.
I haven't imagined my r e a d e r s as g r e a t
i n t e l l e c t s , j u s t s e n s i t i v e and i n t u i t i v e . I've supposed they might be
e i t h e r men o r women. I n r o m a n t i c
moments, I've thought they might be
p e o p l e l i v i n g a t another t i m e o r p l a c e
who might somehow communicate w i t h my
s p i r i t when I'm dead.
P r o b a b l y because I t h i n k o f p o e t r y as
i n t i m a t e , I haven't thought o f i t a s
h a v i n g a "message" i n a d i d a c t i c sense,
at l e a s t n o t v e r y o f t e n . One d o e s n ' t
too o f t e n attempt t o t e a c h one's
f r i e n d s ; a f t e r a l l one c o n v e r s e s w i t h
them, one t r i e s t o l e t them see what
i t f e e l s l i k e t o be t h i s p e r s o n i n
t h i s p l a c e a t t h i s t i m e . One s h a r e s
one's g r i e f s o r one's amusement. One
t e l l s them s t o r i e s . Sometimes one
c a r r i e s on an argument w i t h them.
A l t h o u g h I don't t e n d t o t h i n k I'm a
d i d a c t i c w r i t e r , I do f e e l t h a t I
g e n e r a l l y say something and t h e "somet h i n g " i s i m p o r t a n t t o me. One d o e s n ' t
j u s t communicate "messages" o r "themes."
One communicates moods, f e e l i n g s , observations, experience, attitudes t o
e x p e r i e n c e , memories, dreams. And
p a r t o f what i s communicated i s t h e
manner o f t h e poem, t h e k i n d o f l a n guage u s e d , t h e l o o k o f t h e poem on
the page, t h e way i t sounds. I would
l i k e p e o p l e who r e a d my poems t o hear
the v o i c e b e h i n d t h e poems and hear i t
as t h e v o i c e o f a f r i e n d . The v o i c e
of a f r i e n d echoes i n one's e a r s and
communicates more s u b t l y t h a n any
"message" t h e f r i e n d may seem t o be
delivering.
Some p o e t s a r e , o r appear t o be o b j e c t i v e and i m p e r s o n a l and a r e n o t t o be
found, o r a t l e a s t n o t v e r y r e a d i l y ,
i n t h e i r poems. B u t t h a t ' s n o t t r u e
o f me. As a m a t t e r o f f a c t , I am
p r o b a b l y more r e a d i l y found i n my
poems than i n t h i s room. I'm more r e l a x e d w i t h t h e f r i e n d s I imagine t h a n
w i t h t h e p e o p l e I have c o f f e e w i t h .
That's why I can w r i t e — w i t h t r u t h f o r
m e — a poem c a l l e d " B i o g r a p h y and t h e
Poet:"
BIOGRAPHY AND THE POET
(A Poem f o r Cathy)
Why, someone a s k s ,
this intrustion
of the poet's l i f e ?
Why i s n ' t t h e poem
s e p a r a t e and anonymous
as t h e b r i d g e a c r o s s a r i v e r
which e x i s t s o n l y t o s u p p o r t
i t s burden o f c a r s and p e o p l e ?
Who c a r e s about t h e poet
any more than about t h e e n g i n e e r ?
Maybe because
poems a f t e r a l l
are n o t made o f s t e e l o r c o n c r e t e ,
are n o t shaped w i t h t h e a i d o f
blueprints,
cannot be d u p l i c a t e d
o v e r another r i v e r .
Poems a r e more o r g a n i c ;
at worst excremental,
at best l i k e c h i l d r e n ,
separate but wearing
the p a r e n t a l f e a t u r e s ;
sometimes maybe p l a n t s ,
green m y s t e r i e s
s p r i n g i n g unexpected
from t h e h e a r t ' s humus.
I t ' s a more r e a l p r e s e n c e , maybe,
t h i s r e d maple,
than t h e bones o f t h e dead p o e t
feeding i t s roots;
but be c a r e f u l how you c r u s h
under your f i n g e r s
these b r i t t l e wafer leaves
w h i c h l o o k d r y and powdery.
You might break t h r o u g h t o f l e s h .
Your whole hand might be
sopped i n b l o o d .
As you can s e e , t h a t poem s t a r t s as
another "poem f o r an audience o f one,"
a poem f o r a s p e c i f i c g i r l named
Cathy w i t h whom I ' d had a d i s c u s s i o n
about b i o g r a p h y and t h e poet. B u t t h e
"you" who i s a d d r e s s e d a t t h e end o f
the poem i s p r o b a b l y n o t so much
Cathy as a n o t h e r d i s t a n t anonymous
r e a d e r who may r e a d t h e " b r i t t l e wafer
l e a v e s " o f my p o e t r y — o r someone
e l s e ' s p o e t r y — s o m e time i n t h e f u t u r e ,
and f i n d h e r s e l f ( h i m s e l f ? ) e n c o u n t e r ing the " r e a l presence" o f the poet
(myself? somebody e l s e ? ) i n a k i n d o f
m y s t i c t r a n s u b s t a n t i a t i o n o f paper i n t o f l e s h and b l o o d . I t ' s something
I've f e l t when I've r e a d o t h e r p o e t s :
I guess I ' d l i k e some p e o p l e t o f e e l
the same way about my poems.
Margaret Atwood
When I f i r s t s t a r t e d t o w r i t e p o e t r y
I had no a u d i e n c e , n o r c o u l d I imagine
one.
I was s i x t e e n and i n f o u r t h y e a r
h i g h s c h o o l . The y e a r was 1956, t h e
a c c e p t e d s t a n c e f o r g i r l s was c o l l e c t i n g c h i n a and w a i t i n g t o g e t m a r r i e d ,
and a l t h o u g h my immediate f r i e n d s d i d
n o t conform t o t h i s m o u l d — o n e wanted
t o be a d o c t o r , one a p s y c h o l o g i s t ,
one an a c t r e s s — n o n e o f them wanted t o
be p o e t s . The o n l y Canadian poem I
had ever heard about was W i l s o n MacDonald' s, "The S c a r l e t Maple T r e e , " as
Canadian l i t e r a t u r e was n o t t a u g h t
much i n t h e s c h o o l s . So I had some
vague n o t i o n t h a t I wanted t o w r i t e