My mind has been cluttered lately, and honestly, it still is. In the noise, I’ve been trying to weave in strands of melody, a little beauty into the chaos. That’s how I stumbled onto Margaret Atwood’s Dearly, a poetry collection that offered a glimpse into her world and, somewhere along the way, a moment of solace.
The collection moves between time, nature, and gender. Some poems honour loved ones, memories blooming alive in language. Others turn toward climate change, unflinching and clear-eyed. Atwood’s breadth here is striking; her depth even more so, and together they radiate this strange grief and awakening.
A few poems left me bedazzled. Others made me wonder what exactly I’d just read, though perhaps that’s the nature of any anthology worth its salt.
Here’s a few, though there’s plenty more waiting within the pages:
Salt
“Were things good then?
Yes. They were good.
Did you know they were good?
At the time? Your time?
No, because I was worrying
Or maybe hungry
Or asleep, half of those hours.”
Reading it, I felt seen in an unflattering yet oddly comforting way. Half-asleep, meandering through this long stretch of a journey, not quite present for any of it. When was the last time I was truly awake? Perhaps when I was five.
Little Robot
“Little dollface robot,
What will you make of yourself
In this world we are making?
What will you make of us?
Will we become your ancestors,
rapacious and tedious?
Or will you erase us?
Will you drop us on the floor?
Would that be better?”
When what we created are much too big for us to hold … is this a precursor to our future?
Dearly
And finally, the poem that lends the collection its name.
“Dearly beloved, gathered here together
In this closed drawer,
Fading now, I miss you.
I miss the missing, those who left earlier.
I miss even those who are still here.
I miss you all dearly.
Dearly do I sorrow for you.”
A silent grief, a list of names spoken softly, again and again; knowing that all that remains is the longing for the past.
Dearly is a collection for days when the skies are bright and grey, when the heart ache and yearn, and for those looking for a little beauty in ordinary life.
The draw of Atwood’s words is real and now I know why.
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