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htoo's review against another edition
I do enjoy Sharon Olds' writing style. This collection is just not for me at this moment. While I do appreciate Olds for writing about her divorce, I feel like the repetitive nature of the poems makes it hard to get into. I'll definitely come back to this collection later.
lisaelizabhet's review against another edition
5.0
Hace algunos meses empecé a orbitar poemarios sobre la pérdida, y ahora estoy sobreviviendo a mi propio duelo amoroso. No sé si fue mi intuición queriendo prepararme o pura coincidencia. Lo que sí sé es que Sharon Olds me quebrantó con estos poemas sobre su pérdida y que la amo y agradezco infinitamente ser envuelta por su sabiduría y ternura y por decirme antes de tiempo una afirmación que quisiera creer para siempre desde ahora: “Naciste para sanar”.
casparb's review against another edition
!!! fascinating !!! compare to Carson's Beauty of the Husband please 4.5
sydneyzahradka's review against another edition
I’ve said that he and I had been crazy
for each other, but maybe my ex and I were not
crazy for each other. Maybe we
were sane for each other, as if our desire
was almost not even personal—
it was personal, but that hardly mattered, since there
seemed to be no other woman
or man in the world. Maybe it was
an arranged marriage, air and water and
earth had planned us for each other—and fire,
a fire of pleasure like a violence
of kindness. To enter those vaults together, like a
solemn or laughing couple in formal
step or writhing hair and cry, seemed to
me like the earth’s and moon’s paths,
inevitable, and even, in a way,
shy—enclosed in a shyness together,
equal in it. But maybe I
was crazy about him—it is true that I saw
that light around his head when I’d arrive second
at a restaurant—oh for God’s sake,
I was besotted with him. Meanwhile the planets
orbited each other, the morning and the evening
came. And maybe what he had for me
was unconditional, temporary
affection and trust, without romance,
though with fondness—with mortal fondness. There was no
tragedy, for us, there was
the slow-revealed comedy
of ideal and error. What precision of action
it had taken, for the bodies to hurtle through
the sky for so long without harming each other.
for each other, but maybe my ex and I were not
crazy for each other. Maybe we
were sane for each other, as if our desire
was almost not even personal—
it was personal, but that hardly mattered, since there
seemed to be no other woman
or man in the world. Maybe it was
an arranged marriage, air and water and
earth had planned us for each other—and fire,
a fire of pleasure like a violence
of kindness. To enter those vaults together, like a
solemn or laughing couple in formal
step or writhing hair and cry, seemed to
me like the earth’s and moon’s paths,
inevitable, and even, in a way,
shy—enclosed in a shyness together,
equal in it. But maybe I
was crazy about him—it is true that I saw
that light around his head when I’d arrive second
at a restaurant—oh for God’s sake,
I was besotted with him. Meanwhile the planets
orbited each other, the morning and the evening
came. And maybe what he had for me
was unconditional, temporary
affection and trust, without romance,
though with fondness—with mortal fondness. There was no
tragedy, for us, there was
the slow-revealed comedy
of ideal and error. What precision of action
it had taken, for the bodies to hurtle through
the sky for so long without harming each other.