I just read Sharon Olds’ newest book of poetry, One Secret Thing. I think Olds is one of the best poets working today and often think of her affectionately as the literary daughter of the three women I wrote my thesis on (Sexton, Rich, Kumin).
This most recent book is a meditation on motherhood and daughterhood, and describes in luminous, deeply sad detail the process of watching her mother die. Michael Ondaatje’s blurb on the back of the book says it far better than I could (and his words are, also, I think, gorgeous):
Sharon Olds’ s poems are pure fire in the hands – risky, on the verge of falling, and in the end leaping up. I love the roughness and humor and brag and tenderness and completion in her work as she carries the reader through rooms of passion and loss.
The poem called One Secret Thing dwells on the intimate physical details of the end of life and reminds me of when Nana was so sick. Watching Mum take care of her and nurse her was deeply moving, something I will never forget. How I wish Nana had known Gracie.
The poem called When Our Firstborn Slept In contains a line that reminds me of the early days of Grace’s life:
…Girl of a mother,
mother of a girl, I paced, listening,
almost part-fearing, sometimes …
This reminds me of the memory I’ve cited before of trying to sleep while Mum walked with infant Grace above my head. I’m thinking of Grammy and Nana and Mum and Grace today. The thoughts are unformed and inarticulate, but so am I!
