Kelsey Williams "You need a certain amount of nerve to be a writer."

 Born on November 18, 1939 in Ottawa, Ontario.  Her parents were of Nova Scotian decent.  She was the daughter of a forest entomologist [branch of Zoology that deals with insects].

 She received her bachelor’s degree from Victoria college [Toronto] in  Her mentor, Northrop Frye, recommended she pursue a graduate degree at Radcliffe College. While she was there the college joined Harvard University.  Her experiences there helped her feminist views and opposition to the Americanization of Canadian culture.

 She married Jim Polk in 1968, but they were divorced in  Later she got together with Graeme Gibson, a fellow novelist; in 1976 they had a daughter, Eleanor Jess Atwood Gibson.

 Her first publication was a book of poetry, The Circle Game ;it received the Governor General's Literary Award for Poetry.  As a productive poet, novelist, feminist and activist, she is a winner of the Booker Prize and Arthur C. Clarke Award, and she was a finalist for the Governor General’s Award.

 post·mod·ern adj. Of or relating to art, architecture, or literature that reacts against earlier modernist principles, as by reintroducing traditional or classical elements of style or by carrying modernist styles or practices to extremes

 Repetition: a symbol is a word or object that stands for another word or object. The object or word can be seen with the eye or not visible.  Free Verse: Verse composed of variable, usually unrhymed lines having no fixed metrical pattern  Symbolism: the practice of representing things by symbols, or of investing things with a symbolic meaning or character.

By Margaret Atwood You're sad because you're sad. It's psychic. It's the age. It's chemical. Go see a shrink or take a pill, or hug your sadness like an eyeless doll you need to sleep. Well, all children are sad but some get over it. Count your blessings. Better than that, buy a hat. Buy a coat or pet. Take up dancing to forget. Forget what? Your sadness, your shadow, whatever it was that was done to you the day of the lawn party when you came inside flushed with the sun, your mouth sulky with sugar, in your new dress with the ribbon and the ice-cream smear, and said to yourself in the bathroom, I am not the favorite child. My darling, when it comes right down to it and the light fails and the fog rolls in and you're trapped in your overturned body under a blanket or burning car, and the red flame is seeping out of you and igniting the tarmac beside you head or else the floor, or else the pillow, none of us is; or else we all are.

You're sad because you're sad. It's psychic. It's the age. It's chemical. Go see a shrink or take a pill, or hug your sadness like an eyeless doll you need to sleep. Shortness of words makes it more dramatic-sounding. Repetition of the word sad “hug” symbolizes embracing your sadness “eyeless doll” symbolizes being unable to see

Well, all children are sad but some get over it. Count your blessings. Better than that, buy a hat. Buy a coat or pet. Take up dancing to forget.

Forget what? Your sadness, your shadow, whatever it was that was done to you the day of the lawn party when you came inside flushed with the sun, your mouth sulky with sugar, in your new dress with the ribbon and the ice-cream smear, and said to yourself in the bathroom, I am not the favorite child Your sadness is like a shadow, it always follows you

My darling, when it comes right down to it and the light fails and the fog rolls in and you're trapped in your overturned body under a blanket or burning car, Darkness, night time

and the red flame is seeping out of you and igniting the tarmac beside you head or else the floor, or else the pillow, none of us is; or else we all are. blood

By Margaret Atwood This is the one song everyone would like to learn: the song that is irresistible: the song that forces men to leap overboard in squadrons even though they see the beached skulls the song nobody knows because anyone who has heard it is dead, and the others can't remember. Shall I tell you the secret and if I do, will you get me out of this bird suit? I don't enjoy it here squatting on this island looking picturesque and mythical with these two feathery maniacs, I don't enjoy singing this trio, fatal and valuable. I will tell the secret to you, to you, only to you. Come closer. This song is a cry for help: Help me! Only you, only you can, you are unique at last. Alas it is a boring song but it works every time. Three-line stanza

This is the one song everyone would like to learn: the song that is irresistible: hypnotizing

the song that forces men to leap overboard in squadrons even though they see the beached skulls the song nobody knows because anyone who has heard it is dead, and the others can't remember. si·ren [sahy-ruh n] –noun 1. Classical Mythology. one of several sea nymphs, part woman and part bird, who lure mariners to destruction by their seductive singing. 2.a seductively beautiful or charming woman, esp. one who beguiles men: a siren of the silver screen. si·ren [sahy-ruh n] –noun 1. Classical Mythology. one of several sea nymphs, part woman and part bird, who lure mariners to destruction by their seductive singing. 2.a seductively beautiful or charming woman, esp. one who beguiles men: a siren of the silver screen.

Shall I tell you the secret and if I do, will you get me out of this bird suit? I don’t enjoy it here squatting on this island looking picturesque and mythical with these two feathery maniacs, I don't enjoy singing this trio, fatal and valuable. I will tell the secret to you, to you, only to you. Come closer. This song With the imagery she gives us, it leads us to believe that the speaker is a bird.

is a cry for help: Help me! Only you, only you can, you are unique at last. Alas it is a boring song but it works every time Repetition of words

By Margaret Atwood The moment when, after many years of hard work and a long voyage you stand in the centre of your room, house, half-acre, square mile, island, country, knowing at last how you got there, and say, I own this, is the same moment when the trees unloose their soft arms from around you, the birds take back their language, the cliffs fissure and collapse, the air moves back from you like a wave and you can't breathe. No, they whisper. You own nothing. You were a visitor, time after time climbing the hill, planting the flag, proclaiming. We never belonged to you. You never found us. It was always the other way round.

The moment when, after many years of hard work and a long voyage you stand in the centre of your room, house, half-acre, square mile, island, country, knowing at last how you got there, and say, I own this, life The possessive pronoun “you” indicates that you are in an intimate, and familiar place I feel that this is referring to the feeling you get after you overcoming an obstacle

is the same moment when the trees unloose their soft arms from around you, the birds take back their language, the cliffs fissure and collapse, the air moves back from you like a wave and you can't breathe.

No, they whisper. You own nothing. You were a visitor, time after time climbing the hill, planting the flag, proclaiming. We never belonged to you. You never found us. It was always the other way round.