I had a moment today whilst teaching.
I was covering unseen poetry and using The Moment, by Margaret Atwood. Truth will out and it will declare than I don’t really like this poem, massively. It’s one of those poems that sounds like poetry and has lots of spaces that allow for deep and meaningful reflection. It’s okay in a satisfactory way and is definitely okay for writing about unseen poetry. If it was a choice, the poem would not be accompanying me to my desert island. I could not imagine endless moments of The Moment whilst the waves gently lap against the golden shores of my Time. What I want from poetry is not quiet words of wisdom but unquiet meanderings that haunt my thoughts for year after year.
“You really love poetry, don’t you, sir?”
“Yes, I suppose I do.” Non-intentional dramatic pause. “Yes, I do.”
There are poets…
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