The animals in that country

b. 1939 Margaret Atwood

Apparently, there is some talk about who Margaret Atwood is and if it matters if the Mayor of Canada's largest city knows who she is, yadda yadda yadda...  All I know is when I was a teenager I read a poem that made me think in a way I had not previously. It bore a hole right through my brain that has forever caused me to be open to new ways of looking at things.

For that alone I will always know Margaret Atwood. I will know her not as a personal friend, or even as a "Canadian Personage" but as a reluctance to accept blindly the understanding of reality that is doled out with cultural meat pies. 

The animals in that country 

In that country the animals   

have the faces of people:

the ceremonial

cats possessing the streets

the fox run

politely to earth, the huntsmen   

standing around him, fixed   

in their tapestry of manners

the bull, embroidered

with blood and given

an elegant death, trumpets, his name   

stamped on him, heraldic brand   

because

(when he rolled

on the sand, sword in his heart, the teeth   

in his blue mouth were human)

he is really a man

even the wolves, holding resonant   

conversations in their   

forests thickened with legend.

            In this country the animals   

            have the faces of   

            animals.

            Their eyes

            flash once in car headlights   

            and are gone.

            Their deaths are not elegant.

            They have the faces of   

            no-one.

Now you might think that I am against eating animals, the fact is "animals" are us and included in "us" are other "animals" who are eating us.  Largely what, or who, is an animal is based on our definitions and our definitions change because of our attitudes. 

Being aware that even the definition of our "personhood" is subjected to popular concensus is a frightening thought. Nevertheless as much as we can, we need to penetrate the meaning.  It seems to be our inheritance.