“The next day, I am almost afraid. Love? It was more like dragonflies in the sun, 100 degrees at noon, the ends of their abdomens stuck together. I close my eyes when I remember. I hardly knew myself, like something… — Sharon Olds Copy Share Image
Poems come from ordinary experiences and objects, I think. Out of memory - a dress I lent my daughter on her way back to… — Sharon Olds Copy Share Image
There are some fine books and essays about that. Lewis Hyde has written about alcoholism and poets and the role that society gives its… — Sharon Olds Copy Share Image
I'm not asking a poem to carry a lot of rocks in its pockets. Just being an ordinary observer and liver and feeler and… — Sharon Olds Copy Share Image
“How do they do it, the ones who make love without love? How do they come to the come to the come to the… — Sharon Olds Copy Share Image
She'd crack A joke sharp as a tin lid Hot from the teeth of the can-opener, And cackle her crack-corn laugh. — Sharon Olds Copy Share Image
If I wrote in a sonnet form, I would be distorting. Or if I had some great new idea for line breaks and I… — Sharon Olds Copy Share Image
Many poets write books. They'll tell you: Well, I've got my next book, but there are two poems I need to write, one about… — Sharon Olds Copy Share Image
“as if languagelessness was a step up, in evolution, from the chatter of consciousness.” — Sharon Olds Copy Share Image
Maybe we can use a metaphor for it, out of dance. I think for many years I was aware of the need, in dance… — Sharon Olds Copy Share Image
Who wants to put together something that will bear some relationship to the vision or memory or experience or story or idea or dream… — Sharon Olds Copy Share Image
“I put my arms around a trunk and squeezed it, then I lay down on my father's grave.” — Sharon Olds Copy Share Image
