![]() ![]() In 2017 I published a collection of ninety-three poems by Sharon Olds that I had translated into Hebrew ( The Floor of Our Life ). Still, almost always the ending catches her unprepared, conceals another surprising bend, the blow of the last lines, sometimes the very last words, just three or four of them-and leaves her breathless. ![]() The poem proceeds toward its end soon, the reader tells herself, suffocation will wane, heaviness will dissipate, relief will come. Slowly, from one line to the next, a sheer silky tie seems to be wrapped around the neck, tightened up to tears. How should one describe reading in Sharon Olds? Maybe, like this: the entrance to the poem is almost always an entrance into a tense, troubled, charged area, a field of intersecting magnetic currents in air growing thicker and thicker. ![]()
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