Sharon Olds, from "Little Things"; Strike Sparks: Selected Poems, 1980-2002
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true love by Sharon Olds
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Sharon Olds, “Late Poem to My Father”
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patrick white the vivisector \\ sharon olds one secret thing: poems: "something is happening" (via @flowerytale)
kofi
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Sex Without Love
by Sharon Olds
How do they do it, the ones who make love
without love? Beautiful as dancers,
gliding over each other like ice-skaters
over the ice, fingers hooked
inside each other’s bodies, faces
red as steak, wine, wet as the
children at birth whose mothers are going to
give them away. How do they come to the
come to the come to the God come to the
still waters, and not love
the one who came there with them, light
rising slowly as steam off their joined
skin? These are the true religious,
the purists, the pros, the ones who will not
accept a false Messiah, love the
priest instead of the God. They do not
mistake the lover for their own pleasure,
they are like great runners: they know they are alone
with the road surface, the cold, the wind,
the fit of their shoes, their over-all cardio-
vascular health — just factors, like the partner
in the bed, and not the truth, which is the
single body alone in the universe
against its own best time.
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I know where you are / with my eyes closed, we are bound to each other / with huge invisible threads,
Sharon Olds, Strike Sparks: Selected Poems 1980-2002; from ‘True Love’
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Once you lose someone, it is never exactly the same person who comes back.
Sharon Olds
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I Go Back to May 1937, Sharon Olds
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“Nice and neat, tragedy. Restful, too. In a drama, with its traitors, its desperate villains, its innocent victims, avengers, devoted followers and glimmers of hope, death becomes something terrible, a kind of accident. You might have arrived in time with the police. But tragedy's so peaceful! For one thing, everybody's on a par. All innocent! It doesn't matter if one person kills and the other is killed - it's just a matter of casting. And above all, tragedy's restful, because you know there's no lousy hope left. You know you're caught, caught at last like a rat in a trap, with all heaven against you. And the only thing left to do is shout - not moan, or complain, but yell out at the top of your voice whatever it was you had to say. What you've never said before. What perhaps you didn't even know till now… And to no purpose - just so as to tell it to yourself... to learn it, yourself. In drama you struggle, because you hope you're going to survive. It's utilitarian - sordid. But tragedy is gratuitous. Pointless, irremediable. Fit for a king!” —Jean Anouilh, Antigone
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Sharon Olds, from "Something Is Happening", One Secret Thing: Poems
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Once you lose someone it is never exactly the same person who comes back
Sharon Olds; Satan Says
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Sharon Olds, “The Chute”
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Little Things
by Sharon Olds
After she’s gone to camp, in the early
evening I clear our girl’s breakfast dishes
from the rosewood table, and find a dinky
crystallized pool of maple syrup, the
grains standing there, round, in the night, I
rub it with my fingertip
as if I could read it, this raised dot of
amber sugar, and this time,
when I think of my father, I wonder why
I think of my father, of the Vulcan blood-red
glass in his hand, or his black hair gleaming like a
broken-open coal. I think I learned to
love the little things about him
because of all the big things
I could not love, no one could, it would be wrong to.
So when I fix on this image of resin
or sweep together with the heel of my hand a
pile of my son’s sunburn peels like
insect wings, where I peeled his back the night before camp,
I am doing something I learned early to do, I am
paying attention to small beauties,
whatever I have -- as if it were our duty to
find things to love, to bind ourselves to this world.
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How sorely I wanted to be
sane. What a life we are given! Sudden,
and cold, with blood on it.
— Sharon Olds, from "Paper Doll Ballad, for Fats," Balladz
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SHARON OLDS for The New York Times Magazine photographed by Ruven Afanador (2022)
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