Comments on: Sharon Old’s The Unswept Room

By: Gillian

Gillian — Thu, 15 Nov 2007 00:35:34 +0000

I was bemused by this discussion, particularly the question of whether (or to what degree) the material was offensive or even pornographic, and how a reader’s perception about that would influence a judgement of the work’s merit. When I got to the part where you said you didn’t find sex to be better than religion, the light of context went on.

By: Andru Matthews

Andru Matthews — Tue, 30 Nov 1999 00:00:00 +0000

I haven’t read the Unswept Room, but perhaps it isn’t her finest work. Her earlier books–Satan Says, The Father, The Gold Cell–plumb much the same territory: familial and personal dysfunction, the glory of sex, and the ambiguities of parenthood. I find some of the poems in these books, particularly those about her feelings for her parents and her children, moving and insightful. I don’t know enough to comment meaningfully about her technique or style, but her finest work excavates true and difficult emotional terrain.

By: loren

loren — Tue, 30 Nov 1999 00:00:00 +0000

Thanks for offering a different opinion, Andru. Can you think of any particular poems you would recommend?

One of the reasons I included references to other sites is so that readers could find differing opinions.

One of the difficulties of commenting on any poet’s book of poems is that you’re dealing with a small sampling of their works unless you’re reading the collected poems of a poet who is already at the end of their career, or, all too often, dead.

In the end, I guess I just liked Marie Howe’s poems that dealt with similar themes better.

By: andru

andru — Tue, 30 Nov 1999 00:00:00 +0000

I don’t actually read a lot of poetry or remember titles when I do, so I’ll need to flip through her books tonight when I get home. I’ve not read Marie Howe but perhaps I should, as it is Sharon Olds themes that I find most compelling about her work.

It’s interesting, though, because I distinctly remember one of her poems from those early books where she is waiting for a bus and thinking about her son and how much she resented him when he was born that I thought was brilliant (as a son thinking about his relationship with his own mother), but flipping through the books in the years since I’ve been unable to find it. I suppose I tell you this story in case I can’t find anything particularly compelling when I look tonight. Covering my derriere, as it were.