Duckie is unfortunate enough to be studying the poet Sharon Olds for one of her classes. Upon sharing some of Old's poetry with me, and hearing Old's read her own poetry, I was...how should we put this...stricken with inspiration.
First, here is a sample of Old's work:
The Language of the Brag
I have wanted excellence in the knife-throw,
I have wanted to use my exceptionally strong and accurate arms
and my straight posture and quick electric muscles
to achieve something at the centre of a crowd,
the blade piercing the bark deep,
the haft slowly and heavily vibrating like the cock.
I have wanted some epic use for my excellent body,
some heroism, some American achievement
beyond the ordinary for my extraordinary self,
magnetic and tensile, I have stood by the sandlot
and watched the boys play.
I have wanted courage, I have thought about fire
and the crossing of waterfalls, I have dragged around
my belly big with cowardice and safely,
my stool black with iron pills,
my huge breasts oozing mucus,
my legs swelling, my hands swelling,
my face swelling and darkening, my hair
falling out, my inner sex
stabbed again and again with terrible pain like a knife.
I have lain down.
I have lain down and sweated and shaken
and passed blood and feces and water and
slowly alone in the centre of a circle I have
passed the new person out
and they have lifted the new person free of the act
and wiped the new person free of that
language of blood like praise all over the body.
I have done what you wanted to do, Walt Whitman,
Allen Ginsberg, I have done this thing,
I and the other women this exceptional
act with the exceptional heroic body,
this giving birth, this glistening verb,
and I am putting my proud American boast
right here with the others.
My response to this:
Upon Reading Sharon Olds
Oh lame duck that would eat other
children how I want to ride you.
You wear succulent buttons on your breasts that
make me say Never, because you are jail bate
When I imagine your black and white striped suitYour brow, white and sagging like days
of oleander, I find myself knowing,
knowing that children cannot ever play
old bread ferments heavy on my
tongue like popsicles melting under
To hear me reading this brilliant piece go to: http://hyperfileshare.com/d/eead4953