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4.01 AVERAGE
4.01 AVERAGE
emotional
hopeful
reflective
sad
medium-paced
A soothing balm for my grieving heart. Mourning the loss of a relationship that I thought was going to last. Learning that love is not a doorway to forever, but it is a window, an opportunity for learning and growing.
So much of it so moving. A confessional that pierces right through my heart space.
“And I saw, again, how blessed my life has been, /
first, to have been able to love, /
then, to have the parting now behind me, /
…and not to have /
lost someone who could have loved me for life.”
So much of it so moving. A confessional that pierces right through my heart space.
“And I saw, again, how blessed my life has been, /
first, to have been able to love, /
then, to have the parting now behind me, /
…and not to have /
lost someone who could have loved me for life.”
emotional
funny
hopeful
reflective
sad
medium-paced
Edit (the next day 10/20): I actually think I'm obnoxious and this is a total 4. Too many poems I enjoyed. And the highs are too high for a 3.5.
_________
3.5
Some really exceptional work in here, but the seasonal sections mainly fell flat for me, and, if a quarter or more of the poems in a collection don't at least leave a minor impact, what is really the point?
Anyway, gorgeously sad poems about divorce, about love's failed promise, about thirty years of marital expectations collapsing, about love's resonances beyond its own original dissolution, about the way memories during relationships become time capsules and then suddenly must become yet more memories to remember in a constant stream of monotonously beautiful reminiscences, about the way a man's hips can seem like sacred gifts, about the way the physical unlocks the emotional and vice versa, and about the irreparable inconceivability of someone who has loved you for thirty years gradually falling away for another.
I loved this in many ways. I think I just love Sharon Olds' confessional voice. She lets you almost too far into her being, both cerebrally and bodily. Like Ernaux, she investigates a bit what it means to be a confessional poet and the manner in which that affects those closest to you, how it would affect someone to become your art object in a way. She is a tad overzealous with archaic diction, but she also has a very strong sense of sound and rhythm, so it feels like it mostly comes from a deep love of language rather than a need to please and perform.
I liked this poem especially:
Last Look
In the last minute of our marriage, I looked into
his eyes. All day until then, I had been
comforting him, for the shock he was in
at his pain—the act of leaving me
took him back, to his own early
losses. But now it was time to go beyond
comfort, to part. And his eyes seemed to me,
still, like the first ocean, wherein
the blue-green algae came into their early
language, his sea-wide iris still
essential, for me, with the depths in which
our firstborn, and then our second, had turned,
on the sides of their tongues the taste buds for the moon-bland
nectar of our milk—our milk. In his gaze,
rooms of the dead; halls of loss; fog-
emerald; driven, dirty-rice snow:
he was in there somewhere, I looked for him,
and he gave me the gift, he let me in,
knowing he would never once, in this world or in
any another, have to do it again,
and I saw him, not as he really was, I was
still without the strength of anger, but I
saw him see me, even now
that dropping down into trust's affection
in his gaze, and I held it, some seconds, quiet,
and I said, Good-bye, and he said, Good-bye,
and I closed my eyes, and rose up out of the
passenger seat in a spiral like someone
coming up out of a car gone off a
bridge into deep water. And two and
three Septembers later, and even
the September after that, that September in New York,
I was glad I had looked at him. And when I
told a friend how glad I'd been,
she said, Maybe it's like with the families
of the dead, even the families of those
who died in the Towers—that need to see
the body, no longer inhabited
by what made them the one we loved—somehow
it helps to say good-bye to the actual,
and I saw, again, how blessed my life has been,
first, to have been able to love,
then, to have the parting now behind me,
and not to have lost him when the kids were young,
and the kids now not at all to have lost him,
and not to have lost him when he loved me, and not to have
lost someone who could have loved me for life.
I will very much look forward to reading more Olds.
p.s. Goodreads' text formatting is totally obnoxious. moon-bland should be on the same line in the poem, but there is no way to fit it nor does there seem to be a way to indent a line to at least make that clear. Alas.
_________
3.5
Some really exceptional work in here, but the seasonal sections mainly fell flat for me, and, if a quarter or more of the poems in a collection don't at least leave a minor impact, what is really the point?
Anyway, gorgeously sad poems about divorce, about love's failed promise, about thirty years of marital expectations collapsing, about love's resonances beyond its own original dissolution, about the way memories during relationships become time capsules and then suddenly must become yet more memories to remember in a constant stream of monotonously beautiful reminiscences, about the way a man's hips can seem like sacred gifts, about the way the physical unlocks the emotional and vice versa, and about the irreparable inconceivability of someone who has loved you for thirty years gradually falling away for another.
I loved this in many ways. I think I just love Sharon Olds' confessional voice. She lets you almost too far into her being, both cerebrally and bodily. Like Ernaux, she investigates a bit what it means to be a confessional poet and the manner in which that affects those closest to you, how it would affect someone to become your art object in a way. She is a tad overzealous with archaic diction, but she also has a very strong sense of sound and rhythm, so it feels like it mostly comes from a deep love of language rather than a need to please and perform.
I liked this poem especially:
Last Look
In the last minute of our marriage, I looked into
his eyes. All day until then, I had been
comforting him, for the shock he was in
at his pain—the act of leaving me
took him back, to his own early
losses. But now it was time to go beyond
comfort, to part. And his eyes seemed to me,
still, like the first ocean, wherein
the blue-green algae came into their early
language, his sea-wide iris still
essential, for me, with the depths in which
our firstborn, and then our second, had turned,
on the sides of their tongues the taste buds for the moon-bland
nectar of our milk—our milk. In his gaze,
rooms of the dead; halls of loss; fog-
emerald; driven, dirty-rice snow:
he was in there somewhere, I looked for him,
and he gave me the gift, he let me in,
knowing he would never once, in this world or in
any another, have to do it again,
and I saw him, not as he really was, I was
still without the strength of anger, but I
saw him see me, even now
that dropping down into trust's affection
in his gaze, and I held it, some seconds, quiet,
and I said, Good-bye, and he said, Good-bye,
and I closed my eyes, and rose up out of the
passenger seat in a spiral like someone
coming up out of a car gone off a
bridge into deep water. And two and
three Septembers later, and even
the September after that, that September in New York,
I was glad I had looked at him. And when I
told a friend how glad I'd been,
she said, Maybe it's like with the families
of the dead, even the families of those
who died in the Towers—that need to see
the body, no longer inhabited
by what made them the one we loved—somehow
it helps to say good-bye to the actual,
and I saw, again, how blessed my life has been,
first, to have been able to love,
then, to have the parting now behind me,
and not to have lost him when the kids were young,
and the kids now not at all to have lost him,
and not to have lost him when he loved me, and not to have
lost someone who could have loved me for life.
I will very much look forward to reading more Olds.
p.s. Goodreads' text formatting is totally obnoxious. moon-bland should be on the same line in the poem, but there is no way to fit it nor does there seem to be a way to indent a line to at least make that clear. Alas.
emotional
reflective
slow-paced
Intimate, poignant poems... Sharon Olds has a gift... the ability to write about hard things and she does so in the most incredible way. She draws you in, shares the raw emotion, and then carries you along - tenderly - with her. I find myself wanting to stop and read everything Olds has ever written. I highly recommend!
Somewhat impressive confessional poetry as Olds explores the end of her thirty year marriage, but parts of it didn't work for me, felt a bit forced.
emotional
reflective
fast-paced
emotional
reflective
relaxing
sad
tense
fast-paced
First off I will admit that I typically not a poetry reader so I sort of feel badly rating this two stars. Someone who enjoys poetry more would possibly like this more.
I read it because it was my "Blind Date" in the Blind Date with a Book program at my library.
I did like how all the poems were related to each other and told an emotional story. However, the topic (divorce) didn't really resonate with me. I've never been divorced nor ended a long term relationship so I didn't relate to it. There was some really gross and weird imagery which I don't really mind normally, but the odd descriptions of dead mice and beetles and whatnot really made me feel icky. So did the super strange descriptions of a miscarriage.
I liked the flow and how the poems were put together, how they read more like a logical story than a sing-songy sort of voice.
Really by reading this I proved to myself that I don't really "get" poetry, or I haven't found my niche. One or the other.
I read it because it was my "Blind Date" in the Blind Date with a Book program at my library.
I did like how all the poems were related to each other and told an emotional story. However, the topic (divorce) didn't really resonate with me. I've never been divorced nor ended a long term relationship so I didn't relate to it. There was some really gross and weird imagery which I don't really mind normally, but the odd descriptions of dead mice and beetles and whatnot really made me feel icky. So did the super strange descriptions of a miscarriage.
I liked the flow and how the poems were put together, how they read more like a logical story than a sing-songy sort of voice.
Really by reading this I proved to myself that I don't really "get" poetry, or I haven't found my niche. One or the other.