This a is poem that was shown to me a little over a year ago by one of my English teachers, Mr. Thompson. It was a part of our “love” (--and the lack of) poetry set, if I remember correctly, right around Valentine’s Day. I was instantly drawn to the poem, which comes to no surprise as I relate well with nearly all of the poems of Sharon Olds. I am no poetry technician, and I honestly have no desire to count rhyme and meter, as I tend to focus on the effects the art piece creates.
Honestly, I will admit to bias. Her style is similar to mine, and so perhaps my love for her poetry is some twisted form of narcissism? But I digress. I present her to you now. Her work is full of simile, sensual (not to be mistaken for sexual) imagery, and mantic meditations on quotidian concepts: sex, a scar, a birthday party, etc. Part of the beauty of Olds' style is its very own unfolding, as it starts with something and augments it; giving a fuller and richer meaning and weight.
"Sex Without Love"
Honestly, I will admit to bias. Her style is similar to mine, and so perhaps my love for her poetry is some twisted form of narcissism? But I digress. I present her to you now. Her work is full of simile, sensual (not to be mistaken for sexual) imagery, and mantic meditations on quotidian concepts: sex, a scar, a birthday party, etc. Part of the beauty of Olds' style is its very own unfolding, as it starts with something and augments it; giving a fuller and richer meaning and weight.
"Sex Without Love"
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.
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.
Also, I subscribed to this YouTube channel months ago. I am in love with this man's voice. Also, the Bernini sculptures are an ingenious idea (this stoic ecstasy). They fit perfectly.
This poem communicates to me on so very many different levels, and happens to change its application every time that I read it: each day of experience enhancing the reading, and each reading adding a layer of understanding.
If I were to select a single word to describe the words of Olds, I would pick “life,” which would describe her content, form, and style: paradoxical, imagery galore, and cerebral to point of abstraction. To simply highlight the beauty of her work:
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| John Stezaker, "Pair IV", 2007 |
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