The DoorThe Door by Margaret Atwood

My rating: 3 of 5 stars

i listened to this book, thinking that poetry should be heard, you know? all those pretty things that poets put into their works–alliteration, assonance, rhythm, etc.

and i have to say that listening to it was pretty horrible.

the reader (CD included with the book) sounded like she needed some serious antidepressants. why do readers of poetry insist on being outliers, either (like this one) somnolent, or else shrieking at you? is there not some middle ground? or at least, can we get the whole spectrum? some moments should be shrieked, others whispered.

maybe they should get actors to read poetry instead of poetry readers. is there some enclave of poetry readers somewhere? do they all hang out on an unmapped island, speaking to each other low and with perfect diction, until the helicopter comes to drag one off to a recording studio in new york? if so, can they ever return?

despite the reader’s pitch urging one to self-destruction, atwood’s poetry still rocks.

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