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The Gold Cell
A dazzling collection of poems by the Pulitzer Prize and T. S. Eliot Prize for Poetry winner, called "a poet for these times, a powerful woman who won’t back down" ( San Francisco Chronicle ).
A collection by the much praised poet whose second book The Dead and the Living, was both the Lamont Poetry Selection for 1983 and winner of the National Book Critics Circle Award.
A collection by the much praised poet whose second book The Dead and the Living, was both the Lamont Poetry Selection for 1983 and winner of the National Book Critics Circle Award.
112 pages, Paperback
First published February 12, 1987
37 people are currently reading
1623 people want to read
About the author
Sharon Olds
86 books765 followersBorn in San Francisco on November 19, 1942, Sharon Olds earned a B.A. at Stanford University and a Ph.D. at Columbia University.
Her first collection of poems, Satan Says (1980), received the inaugural San Francisco Poetry Center Award. Olds's following collection, The Dead & the Living (1983), received the Lamont Poetry Selection in 1983 and the National Book Critics Circle Award.
Her other collections include Strike Sparks: Selected Poems (2004, Knopf), The Unswept Room (2002), Blood, Tin, Straw (1999), The Gold Cell (1997), The Wellspring (1995), and The Father (1992), which was shortlisted for the T. S. Eliot Prize and was a finalist for the National Book Critics Circle Award.
About Olds's poetry, one reviewer for the New York Times said, "Her work has a robust sensuality, a delight in the physical that is almost Whitmanesque. She has made the minutiae of a woman's everyday life as valid a subject for poetry as the grand abstract themes that have preoccupied other poets."
Olds's numerous honors include a National Endowment for the Arts grant and a Guggenheim Foundation Fellowship. Her poetry has appeared in The New Yorker, The Paris Review, and Ploughshares, and has been anthologized in more than a hundred collections.
Olds held the position of New York State Poet from 1998 to 2000. She currently teaches poetry workshops at New York University's Graduate Creative Writing Program as well as a workshop at Goldwater Hospital on Roosevelt Island in New York. She was elected an Academy Chancellor in 2006. She lives in New York City.
Her first collection of poems, Satan Says (1980), received the inaugural San Francisco Poetry Center Award. Olds's following collection, The Dead & the Living (1983), received the Lamont Poetry Selection in 1983 and the National Book Critics Circle Award.
Her other collections include Strike Sparks: Selected Poems (2004, Knopf), The Unswept Room (2002), Blood, Tin, Straw (1999), The Gold Cell (1997), The Wellspring (1995), and The Father (1992), which was shortlisted for the T. S. Eliot Prize and was a finalist for the National Book Critics Circle Award.
About Olds's poetry, one reviewer for the New York Times said, "Her work has a robust sensuality, a delight in the physical that is almost Whitmanesque. She has made the minutiae of a woman's everyday life as valid a subject for poetry as the grand abstract themes that have preoccupied other poets."
Olds's numerous honors include a National Endowment for the Arts grant and a Guggenheim Foundation Fellowship. Her poetry has appeared in The New Yorker, The Paris Review, and Ploughshares, and has been anthologized in more than a hundred collections.
Olds held the position of New York State Poet from 1998 to 2000. She currently teaches poetry workshops at New York University's Graduate Creative Writing Program as well as a workshop at Goldwater Hospital on Roosevelt Island in New York. She was elected an Academy Chancellor in 2006. She lives in New York City.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 148 reviews
May 14, 2020
Too bloodsy for my taste.
Almost no poetry identified.
I'm not sure what I'm giving 2 stars for here. I must be feeling generous right now.
Almost no poetry identified.
I'm not sure what I'm giving 2 stars for here. I must be feeling generous right now.
August 25, 2010
I think "The Gold Cell" rests more comfortably in the 3.5 star space, but alas. Is this a great volume? Not to my mind. It is a quite good one, very solid in places, and stunning in a few. The thing is, just as it shines brightly in some moments, it falls entirely dull at others. I found the section on her father (the second?) to be particularly trying to work through. The book is broken into four parts: one outside of the biographical (?) narrator's vantage point; one directed to her father; one to her lovers and concerning her sexuality; one regarding the experiences and sensations of motherhood.
Knowing me--as you don't--and my unadulterated idolatry of poets like Plath and Sexton, this book should have floored me. As I said, when Olds is able to boil something down, she can be incredibly effective. See the poems "Cambridge Elegy," "The Girl," "Saturn," "The Quest," "Boy Out in the World," and "The Green Shirt." But at times, I find the criticism I've so often heard directed toward Olds--that she falls back on the crutch of shock-value when she's at a poem's weak space--to be justified. For all its humor, I simply cannot believe "The Pope's Penis" to be a great poem. A good one? Sure. A memorable one? Certainly. But for the life of me, I don't get why people blab on and on about that poem (or why I read that for a Modern Poetry course a couple of years ago) when they can look to her other more astonishingly written, deeply felt poems.
Moreover, the wild cries of how groundbreaking her work's breaking of taboos is seem to me slightly misguided. She's certainly speaking of often-silenced topics, but she's not really the first. Had she published this book two decades earlier, she'd have broken that ground; but as it stands, see (I hate to bring them up again) Plath or Sexton on a number of these topics: father/daughter incest; sexual or emotional violence against women; female sexuality; abortion; eroticism; &co&co. She hasn't done it first, though I certainly appreciate that she carries the torch in many respects.
I don't know how this turned into a pitchfork & torch review of the book. I did like it and certainly look forward to reading more Olds. So bottom line is this: the book is stunning at its best points and dreary at its worst. Other poems just get lost in the shuffle between the good and the bad. I'll be curious to pick up other books & see if they are more consistent in quality than this one was. I tend to agree with another reviewer here on GR--the poems are too often boring on the page even if exciting when read aloud. But ultimately, "Cambridge Elegy" is worth the price of admission alone.
Knowing me--as you don't--and my unadulterated idolatry of poets like Plath and Sexton, this book should have floored me. As I said, when Olds is able to boil something down, she can be incredibly effective. See the poems "Cambridge Elegy," "The Girl," "Saturn," "The Quest," "Boy Out in the World," and "The Green Shirt." But at times, I find the criticism I've so often heard directed toward Olds--that she falls back on the crutch of shock-value when she's at a poem's weak space--to be justified. For all its humor, I simply cannot believe "The Pope's Penis" to be a great poem. A good one? Sure. A memorable one? Certainly. But for the life of me, I don't get why people blab on and on about that poem (or why I read that for a Modern Poetry course a couple of years ago) when they can look to her other more astonishingly written, deeply felt poems.
Moreover, the wild cries of how groundbreaking her work's breaking of taboos is seem to me slightly misguided. She's certainly speaking of often-silenced topics, but she's not really the first. Had she published this book two decades earlier, she'd have broken that ground; but as it stands, see (I hate to bring them up again) Plath or Sexton on a number of these topics: father/daughter incest; sexual or emotional violence against women; female sexuality; abortion; eroticism; &co&co. She hasn't done it first, though I certainly appreciate that she carries the torch in many respects.
I don't know how this turned into a pitchfork & torch review of the book. I did like it and certainly look forward to reading more Olds. So bottom line is this: the book is stunning at its best points and dreary at its worst. Other poems just get lost in the shuffle between the good and the bad. I'll be curious to pick up other books & see if they are more consistent in quality than this one was. I tend to agree with another reviewer here on GR--the poems are too often boring on the page even if exciting when read aloud. But ultimately, "Cambridge Elegy" is worth the price of admission alone.
October 27, 2020
I lie on my back after making love,
breasts white in shallow curves like the lids of soup dishes,
nipples shiny as berries, speckled and immutable.
My legs lie down there somewhere on the bed like those
great silver fish dropping over the edge of the table.
Scene of destruction, scene of perfect peace,
sex bright and calm and luminous as the
scarlet and blue dead pheasant all
maroon neck feathers and deep body wounds,
and on the center of my forehead a drop of water
round and opalescent, and in it
the self-portrait of the artist, upside down,
naked, holding your brushes dripping like torches with light.
May 7, 2012
There are so many great lines and so many classic poems in this book, it's like reading a best-of collection. Olds's talent is ridiculous, nearly unreachable in this collection. I read some of these poems and felt changed, like I was absorbing something that could barely fit into me.The pendulum here swings from anger and horror to beauty and love effortlessly, like life in real time. Favorite poems include "Summer Solstice, New York City," "The Girl," "I Go Back to May 1937," "Looking at My Father," "The Blue Dress," "The Month of June: 13 1/2" and seriously about twenty others. This is a mammoth wonder of a book.
September 24, 2024
امروز صبح تو مترو آخرین صفحه رو ورق زدم و جلوی خودم رو گرفتم که با آخرین کلماتش اشک نریزم.
چقدر این زن رو دوست دارم.
چقدر این زن رو دوست دارم.
January 11, 2025
This is red & vivid & bares everything - storytelling in its rawest form. Some of my favorite words ever read appeared on page 55, my luckiest number of all time 🍀“Still Life” excerpt-
“Scene of destruction, scene of perfect peace,
sex bright and calm and luminous as the
scarlet and blue dead pheasant all
maroon neck feathers and deep body wounds,
and on the center of my forehead a drop of water
found and opalescent, and in it
your self portrait—the artist, upside down,
naked, holding your brushes dripping like torches with light”
“Scene of destruction, scene of perfect peace,
sex bright and calm and luminous as the
scarlet and blue dead pheasant all
maroon neck feathers and deep body wounds,
and on the center of my forehead a drop of water
found and opalescent, and in it
your self portrait—the artist, upside down,
naked, holding your brushes dripping like torches with light”
September 13, 2024
More of a storyteller mode, especially the second half which contain poems, over and over again, about a father, a son, and a daughter. I preferred the first half. A run-on voice that pauses with absolute gems like "Then the huge machinery of the earth began to work for his life". These poems are quite personal, but no less imaginary. That poem about a father who holds his kid over an empty shaft by the ankles is unforgettable.
August 31, 2011
I always feel like I'm reading her diary whenever I open up a book of Sharon Olds' poetry. A juicy, carefully written diary she's left open on my bedside table.
May 19, 2025
Permitid que os ahorre la reseña porque el poema inicial habla por si solo de lo monumental que es este grito inmenso:
SOLSTICIO DE VERANO, CIUDAD DE NUEVA YORK
Casi al final del día más largo del año no pudo soportarlo,
subió las escaleras de hierro a través de la azotea del edificio
y sobre la mullida superficie alquitranada
del borde colocó una pierna en la cornisa de estaño verde
y dijo que un paso más y se habría acabado.
Luego la gran maquinaria terrestre se encendió para salvarle la vida,
los policías llegaron con trajes azul grisáceo como el cielo de una tarde nublada,
y uno se puso un chaleco antibalas, un
caparazón negro alrededor de su propia vida,
vida del padre de sus hijos, por
si el hombre estuviera armado, y uno, colgado
de una cuerda como signo de obligación necesaria,
surgió de un agujero en la parte superior del edificio de enfrente,
como el agujero dorado que, según dicen, se encuentra en la parte superior de la cabeza,
y comenzó a espiar al hombre que deseaba morir.
El policía más alto se acercó hasta él directamente,
con suavidad, muy poco a poco, hablándole, hablándole, hablándole…
mientras la pierna del hombre colgaba sobre el borde del otro mundo
y la multitud se reunía en la calle, silenciosa, y la
red peluda con su implacable cuadrícula se
desplegaba junto a la acera y se estiraba
y extendía como sábanas preparadas para un parto.
Entonces todos ellos se acercaron un poco más
hacia donde él permanecía en cuclillas junto a la muerte, su camisa
refulgía un fulgor lechoso como algo
que ha crecido en un plato por la noche en la oscuridad de un laboratorio y después
todo se detuvo
mientras su cuerpo se sacudió
y descendió del parapeto y se dirigió hacia ellos
y lo rodearon. Pensé que iban a
golpearlo como la madre al hijo
perdido, la que grita al hijo cuando lo encuentran, lo
tomaron de los brazos y lo levantaron y
lo apoyaron en el muro de la chimenea y el
policía alto se encendió
un cigarrillo, y le ofreció, y
luego todos encendieron cigarrillos, y el
rojo refulgente de los extremos ardía como las
hogueras pequeñas que encendimos en la noche,
al principio, en el origen del mundo
SOLSTICIO DE VERANO, CIUDAD DE NUEVA YORK
Casi al final del día más largo del año no pudo soportarlo,
subió las escaleras de hierro a través de la azotea del edificio
y sobre la mullida superficie alquitranada
del borde colocó una pierna en la cornisa de estaño verde
y dijo que un paso más y se habría acabado.
Luego la gran maquinaria terrestre se encendió para salvarle la vida,
los policías llegaron con trajes azul grisáceo como el cielo de una tarde nublada,
y uno se puso un chaleco antibalas, un
caparazón negro alrededor de su propia vida,
vida del padre de sus hijos, por
si el hombre estuviera armado, y uno, colgado
de una cuerda como signo de obligación necesaria,
surgió de un agujero en la parte superior del edificio de enfrente,
como el agujero dorado que, según dicen, se encuentra en la parte superior de la cabeza,
y comenzó a espiar al hombre que deseaba morir.
El policía más alto se acercó hasta él directamente,
con suavidad, muy poco a poco, hablándole, hablándole, hablándole…
mientras la pierna del hombre colgaba sobre el borde del otro mundo
y la multitud se reunía en la calle, silenciosa, y la
red peluda con su implacable cuadrícula se
desplegaba junto a la acera y se estiraba
y extendía como sábanas preparadas para un parto.
Entonces todos ellos se acercaron un poco más
hacia donde él permanecía en cuclillas junto a la muerte, su camisa
refulgía un fulgor lechoso como algo
que ha crecido en un plato por la noche en la oscuridad de un laboratorio y después
todo se detuvo
mientras su cuerpo se sacudió
y descendió del parapeto y se dirigió hacia ellos
y lo rodearon. Pensé que iban a
golpearlo como la madre al hijo
perdido, la que grita al hijo cuando lo encuentran, lo
tomaron de los brazos y lo levantaron y
lo apoyaron en el muro de la chimenea y el
policía alto se encendió
un cigarrillo, y le ofreció, y
luego todos encendieron cigarrillos, y el
rojo refulgente de los extremos ardía como las
hogueras pequeñas que encendimos en la noche,
al principio, en el origen del mundo
November 7, 2016
The renown of Sharon Olds’s work is partly due to her ability to have no inhibitions about bearing her soul, especially in regard to sharing the intimacies of her life, whether the subject is carnal love, the ecstasy of love, or the devotional love she has for her children. The other major appeal to her work is the brilliance of her style and language to probe the essence of her subject matter. In this collection, the catalyst for many of the poems focuses on confronting her childhood abuse at the hands of her parents. The best pieces, however, capture the aching and tender love of a mother for her children. The Gold Cell is one of Olds's earlier books, and the poems exhibit her use of language in raw and beautiful form, paving the way for the more sensational and breathtaking wordplay she utilizes later in her career. Each of Olds’s books leaves you mesmerized. The Gold Cell is no different as it registers a definite impression of her greatness.
January 22, 2024
¡Qué poeta más maravillosa es Olds!
Sus poemas parecen una narración, una historia, siempre contenida, pero siempre incontinente, desaforada, en el mejor sentido de estos dos últimos adjetivos.
Su poesía me ha impactado nuevamente, como cuando leí «El padre».
Tengo otras dos obras suyas esperando...
Con eso lo digo todo.
Sus poemas parecen una narración, una historia, siempre contenida, pero siempre incontinente, desaforada, en el mejor sentido de estos dos últimos adjetivos.
Su poesía me ha impactado nuevamente, como cuando leí «El padre».
Tengo otras dos obras suyas esperando...
Con eso lo digo todo.
January 28, 2020
Su crudeza, siempre. Su ternura. Lo que se atreve a decir (y de esa forma). Toda la obra de Sharon Olds atraviesa.
August 5, 2016
You first see The Gold Cell through binoculars and press clippings. On the longest day of the year, a man is talked down from the roof of a building by concerned police officers. A woman confronts her own racism on a New York city subway. Paramedics save an abandoned baby. A man has a conjoined twin. A young girl survives rape but her friend does not. The stories are told as facts. No need for melodrama. The truth of the events is enough blood.
"Outside The Operating Room Of The Sex Change Doctor" is sweet mango candy with a jalapeno center. It begins a trio of poems that I use in workshops and classes. "The Solution" which snakes around Sharon's (I don't know if it's ok to call her Sharon yet. There's still a distance here. Like she is someone you're standing in line at the post office, and you're both afraid it might close before you can send out your really important documents, and she just made a very funny joke, but you don't know if she made the joke for you or if you just happen to be standing near her while she makes the joke to herself.) "The Solution" snakes around Ms. Olds's projection for how to fix "the singles problem". (Is being single a problem? is not the address on the envelope she's affixing stamps to. It's for the people who want. It's for people who want to be wanted. It's for people who want in very specific ways that 1987 didn't know how to handle with their lack of Craigslist and farmer-themed dating websites.) "The Solution" snakes around Ms. Olds's view of American sex, and it plops us at the feet of her next poem "The Pope's Penis" where she grants...ahem...a weight to what's inside the Vatican leader's robes. She closes the first section with open arms, watching imaginary mother and imaginary daughter in bliss. This is the section I use in workshops and classes because sometimes a poet doesn't need to memoir and "I" to make poetry seem personal.
Section 2 is her childhood. Her parents. Her how-do-I-forgive-the-loving-monsters-who-raised-me parents. She begins the section with "I Go Back To May, 1937" where she debates keeping her parents from falling in love so that they won't hurt each other. Then Polaroids of what was. Being held over a laundry chute to fix wires. Lies about presents. Driving up steep hills. Her mother's diet. All these innocent sounding things make for poems rooted with grief and regret but mostly love. (And now she is definitely Sharon, not Ms. Olds. You envy her forgiveness now. You wouldn't dare reassure her things will be alright, because you know that she understands more than you are capable of understanding. You would take back every negative thought you've had about your family except that her narrative is telling you no, you can forgive what you need to forgive, forget what you need to forget, but never feel your story isn't important. You feel that once Sharon is finished telling you about her parents, she will ask you about yours, and no matter the size of your fondness or grievances, she will listen and you will feel everything is...not right...not better...survivable...allowed.)
In the third section Sharon leads us away from her past, into the garden of her first love, her first kiss, and her first sex before we arrive in her 1987 present. In "Premonition" she drives through a parking lot filled with children, terrified she will injure or kill one with her car. Then she drives her car into your sternum. She didn't turn on her blinkers. Her hard left against the red light leaves you sitting in your own car, terrified to move or not move.
The final section introduces us to her children. She mentioned them in the third section but now we learn their names and watch them grow for a bit. Sharon is a thoughtful mother, but she also respects you. Each poem is a picture she takes out of her wallet to show you how she loves them. And, and this is unusual for doting parents, none of her photos look the same. It is not four headshots of a child dressed up and wearing identical forced smiles. Everything is candid. Everything shows she, and her children, and obviously everyone, is flawed. Love is flawed most of all. But worth it.
You want to thank Sharon for talking to you. (Oh god, are we still snaking in a line at the post office? Is that sort of metaphor still happening? Because the window is closed and the lights are out. And you feel that maybe your letter wasn't important enough to mail, but you also feel that you already mailed it. Sharon gives you such conflicting feelings of accomplishment.) You want to thank Sharon for not talking down to you or thinking you needed her to explain her feelings. You want to thank her for leaving her thesaurus at home and just talking to you like a normal person. A person who maybe likes poetry or maybe likes interweaving flash fiction. You just want to thank her.
"Outside The Operating Room Of The Sex Change Doctor" is sweet mango candy with a jalapeno center. It begins a trio of poems that I use in workshops and classes. "The Solution" which snakes around Sharon's (I don't know if it's ok to call her Sharon yet. There's still a distance here. Like she is someone you're standing in line at the post office, and you're both afraid it might close before you can send out your really important documents, and she just made a very funny joke, but you don't know if she made the joke for you or if you just happen to be standing near her while she makes the joke to herself.) "The Solution" snakes around Ms. Olds's projection for how to fix "the singles problem". (Is being single a problem? is not the address on the envelope she's affixing stamps to. It's for the people who want. It's for people who want to be wanted. It's for people who want in very specific ways that 1987 didn't know how to handle with their lack of Craigslist and farmer-themed dating websites.) "The Solution" snakes around Ms. Olds's view of American sex, and it plops us at the feet of her next poem "The Pope's Penis" where she grants...ahem...a weight to what's inside the Vatican leader's robes. She closes the first section with open arms, watching imaginary mother and imaginary daughter in bliss. This is the section I use in workshops and classes because sometimes a poet doesn't need to memoir and "I" to make poetry seem personal.
Section 2 is her childhood. Her parents. Her how-do-I-forgive-the-loving-monsters-who-raised-me parents. She begins the section with "I Go Back To May, 1937" where she debates keeping her parents from falling in love so that they won't hurt each other. Then Polaroids of what was. Being held over a laundry chute to fix wires. Lies about presents. Driving up steep hills. Her mother's diet. All these innocent sounding things make for poems rooted with grief and regret but mostly love. (And now she is definitely Sharon, not Ms. Olds. You envy her forgiveness now. You wouldn't dare reassure her things will be alright, because you know that she understands more than you are capable of understanding. You would take back every negative thought you've had about your family except that her narrative is telling you no, you can forgive what you need to forgive, forget what you need to forget, but never feel your story isn't important. You feel that once Sharon is finished telling you about her parents, she will ask you about yours, and no matter the size of your fondness or grievances, she will listen and you will feel everything is...not right...not better...survivable...allowed.)
In the third section Sharon leads us away from her past, into the garden of her first love, her first kiss, and her first sex before we arrive in her 1987 present. In "Premonition" she drives through a parking lot filled with children, terrified she will injure or kill one with her car. Then she drives her car into your sternum. She didn't turn on her blinkers. Her hard left against the red light leaves you sitting in your own car, terrified to move or not move.
The final section introduces us to her children. She mentioned them in the third section but now we learn their names and watch them grow for a bit. Sharon is a thoughtful mother, but she also respects you. Each poem is a picture she takes out of her wallet to show you how she loves them. And, and this is unusual for doting parents, none of her photos look the same. It is not four headshots of a child dressed up and wearing identical forced smiles. Everything is candid. Everything shows she, and her children, and obviously everyone, is flawed. Love is flawed most of all. But worth it.
You want to thank Sharon for talking to you. (Oh god, are we still snaking in a line at the post office? Is that sort of metaphor still happening? Because the window is closed and the lights are out. And you feel that maybe your letter wasn't important enough to mail, but you also feel that you already mailed it. Sharon gives you such conflicting feelings of accomplishment.) You want to thank Sharon for not talking down to you or thinking you needed her to explain her feelings. You want to thank her for leaving her thesaurus at home and just talking to you like a normal person. A person who maybe likes poetry or maybe likes interweaving flash fiction. You just want to thank her.
November 15, 2016
Today I'm not interested in perfection. I'm interested in truth, in viewpoints unconcerned with spin, in observations that have nothing to sell but a humanized reality. Oh, thank you, Sharon Olds. Your poetic ruminations -- of you facing your parents as the troubling creatures they were, of you watching your children as the trembling creations they are -- are like little electric jolts bringing me back to life, to consciousness. You reanimate the zombified mind and fix my eyes up with an overdue prescription.
October 17, 2008
love "the solution" best prose poem ever?
December 15, 2010
there was a girl in my poetry workshop years ago who wrote exactly like olds (minus the awkward references to a man's penis as his "sex") and i was so seethingly, silently jealous of her
June 28, 2021
Sharon Olds really gets into the viscera. Beautiful but sharp and cutting like a knife yet with tender, wonderful poems about motherhood.
August 16, 2025
I'm enjoying the experience of reading through a Sharon Olds' bibliography in chronological order because it reminds me almost of how hunters track animals. Piecemeal, through bits and bobs of evidence, you navigate the path a creature takes and, in turn, navigate their psyche until eventually you get to their heart.
Olds' third poetry collection is a fairly large tonal departure from her other works. She's taken a step away from angst and anger (though these are still present) to explore other themes: nostalgia, grief, forgiveness, and being horny (I'm looking at you, "It"). The psychosexual stuff is still there, but thankfully Olds is more-or-less done interpreting her kids through this lens, and is content writing on sick days, the beauty of them peeling fruit, and the experience of watching them board the school bus.
The Gold Cell doesn't feel as cohesive as her previous works, but I'm a big fan of a few of the poems: I'm thinking of "The Pope's Penis," I'm thinking of "June 24,"I'm thinking of "It," I'm thinking of "Cambridge Elegy."
Olds father is an established character and point of angst within her poems, so it was pretty neat to read poems that explore other facets of Olds love for him. In "Late Poem to my Father," Olds writes, "When I love you now,/ I like to think I am giving my love/ directly to that boy in the fiery room,/ as if it could reach him in time." The idea of love crossing the boundary of time, as love means loving someone's past too, is corny as hell but touching too.
Pretty good. Three stars.
Olds' third poetry collection is a fairly large tonal departure from her other works. She's taken a step away from angst and anger (though these are still present) to explore other themes: nostalgia, grief, forgiveness, and being horny (I'm looking at you, "It"). The psychosexual stuff is still there, but thankfully Olds is more-or-less done interpreting her kids through this lens, and is content writing on sick days, the beauty of them peeling fruit, and the experience of watching them board the school bus.
The Gold Cell doesn't feel as cohesive as her previous works, but I'm a big fan of a few of the poems: I'm thinking of "The Pope's Penis," I'm thinking of "June 24,"I'm thinking of "It," I'm thinking of "Cambridge Elegy."
Olds father is an established character and point of angst within her poems, so it was pretty neat to read poems that explore other facets of Olds love for him. In "Late Poem to my Father," Olds writes, "When I love you now,/ I like to think I am giving my love/ directly to that boy in the fiery room,/ as if it could reach him in time." The idea of love crossing the boundary of time, as love means loving someone's past too, is corny as hell but touching too.
Pretty good. Three stars.
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December 31, 2022Don't know what to say/think about this one; maybe it represents my struggle to figure out how to weigh/understand poetic craft vs. content. There's no right answer, of course—but this is one of those instances where I don't feel like I can say much that's just in the way of legitimate criticism—only that a good portion of the collection didn't sit well with me. (And here I am, feeling like I'm heading off the topic-cliff of taste and its whims.)
November 21, 2024
2.25 Admittedly a casual poetry reader. It was a lot to take in for me. The writing is beautiful, but it’s not for me. That’s all. Credit to an amazing author who wrote amazing poetic confessions though!
May 4, 2024
my favorite section was the one about motherhood and watching her children grow up
September 25, 2021
Entre a tenrura e a crueza: Sharon Olds. Moi na liña de Los vivos y los muertos, o que máis me gustou dela por agora
August 8, 2012
I actively avoid reading poetry, perhaps because it annoys me that I imagine the Poet too well as she writes.
The Poet is leaning back against a rock outcropping, a pen and notebook in hand, her eyes half-closed, and is taking in the magnificent views and the last few rays of sun on a fall afternoon. She is in communion with Nature. A gentle breeze caresses her long tresses, but her brow is unmarred by perspiration; her perfectly stylish retro taupe skirt and cream crepe blouse bought at name brand boutiques are barely wrinkled. Struck by inspiration, she starts writing, and the words flow urgently and effortlessly from her pen. She is nationally known and revered. She travels and likes to bring back mementos from her trips, such as the picturesque stone cottage she fell in love with on a trip to Wales, which she had dismantled stone by stone, shipped across the ocean, rebuilt and lovingly restored to its 19th century beauty, surrounded by a gorgeous English cottage garden of roses, peonies and delphiniums. People have trailed a path to her (rustic) door and have praised her exquisite taste, her comfortable and warm furnishings, the imported farm antiques whose simple, austere lines polished by time accentuate her surroundings like muted reminders of the Past. Articles have been written about her in magazines, with lavish spreads showing her carrying baskets of flowers in her arms, harvesting eggs from her henhouse, planning feasts for her visiting friends, or sitting, pensive, at her desk, reading letters or reviewing the manuscript to her latest anthology with her faithful golden retriever at her feet and a cat asleep on her lap.
I resent the Poet because I am not she.
This is why I don’t like and don’t read poetry: I imagine it mostly written within the very confines described above, as the self-indulgent musings of the elegant upper class who have too much time on their hands. I know that I am unfair about it, but that is my immediate reaction when facing the prospect of opening a Book of Poetry...
Unlike the Poet, I don’t have the luxury to stop and enjoy what I see in my daily life, much less, to write about it. I run from one place to the next, and I live my life as if in a blur. I am often late to important appointments; I forget promises. I can’t find inspiration running after TriMet busses that take off the curb the minute they see me frantically waving at them. I don’t have the time to make dinner; we eat sandwiches. My yard is overrun with weeds. I feel as a failure as the days, months and years pass, and I can’t manage to put anything coherently together, to amount to anything.
For instance, every year, I promise myself to look with purpose and intent at the tree peony at the side of the house, the one that is the first to bloom, to take in its extravagant red flowers big as dinner plates, to admire the silky texture and the delicate fragility of the petals. And, like every year, I forget to do it. When I finally make it into the garden, it’s invariably too late: as I stand looking at the faded mauve drooping mess, I know that, once again, I missed carrying out my personal resolution. And it doesn’t matter that the white tree peony is now in its full beauty, and after it, the pink one will unfold its own fragile petals: the only shrub I care about is the one with the red blooms.
Nevertheless, Sharon Old’s poetry is not self-indulgent; it is sensitive, well written and descriptive. Old’s “The Gold Cell” is divided into sections that seem to reflect periods of her life, her relationships, in Part One, with the world around her as experienced in the present time, then, in Part Two, her childhood and relationship with her parents, in Part Three, growing up and womanhood, and in Part Four, her children.
I particularly liked the poem “On the Subway” because of the implied tug-of-war between the poet and a young man sitting across from her on the train. Going beyond what may be perceived as just a reflection about an encounter in the subway, because of their different races and background, the poet ponders who has the power in the passenger-to-passenger relationship that is developing as they observe each other on the train. Is he in a position to take advantage of her by robbing her, or is she in fact taking advantage of him by enjoying privileges he obviously does not? Who is hunting whom, she seems to wonder. The poem ends without telling whether any exchange takes place between the two passengers, but the poet suggests that even if she were mugged, she would still have the upper hand and be the one taking advantage of someone else.
The Poet is leaning back against a rock outcropping, a pen and notebook in hand, her eyes half-closed, and is taking in the magnificent views and the last few rays of sun on a fall afternoon. She is in communion with Nature. A gentle breeze caresses her long tresses, but her brow is unmarred by perspiration; her perfectly stylish retro taupe skirt and cream crepe blouse bought at name brand boutiques are barely wrinkled. Struck by inspiration, she starts writing, and the words flow urgently and effortlessly from her pen. She is nationally known and revered. She travels and likes to bring back mementos from her trips, such as the picturesque stone cottage she fell in love with on a trip to Wales, which she had dismantled stone by stone, shipped across the ocean, rebuilt and lovingly restored to its 19th century beauty, surrounded by a gorgeous English cottage garden of roses, peonies and delphiniums. People have trailed a path to her (rustic) door and have praised her exquisite taste, her comfortable and warm furnishings, the imported farm antiques whose simple, austere lines polished by time accentuate her surroundings like muted reminders of the Past. Articles have been written about her in magazines, with lavish spreads showing her carrying baskets of flowers in her arms, harvesting eggs from her henhouse, planning feasts for her visiting friends, or sitting, pensive, at her desk, reading letters or reviewing the manuscript to her latest anthology with her faithful golden retriever at her feet and a cat asleep on her lap.
I resent the Poet because I am not she.
This is why I don’t like and don’t read poetry: I imagine it mostly written within the very confines described above, as the self-indulgent musings of the elegant upper class who have too much time on their hands. I know that I am unfair about it, but that is my immediate reaction when facing the prospect of opening a Book of Poetry...
Unlike the Poet, I don’t have the luxury to stop and enjoy what I see in my daily life, much less, to write about it. I run from one place to the next, and I live my life as if in a blur. I am often late to important appointments; I forget promises. I can’t find inspiration running after TriMet busses that take off the curb the minute they see me frantically waving at them. I don’t have the time to make dinner; we eat sandwiches. My yard is overrun with weeds. I feel as a failure as the days, months and years pass, and I can’t manage to put anything coherently together, to amount to anything.
For instance, every year, I promise myself to look with purpose and intent at the tree peony at the side of the house, the one that is the first to bloom, to take in its extravagant red flowers big as dinner plates, to admire the silky texture and the delicate fragility of the petals. And, like every year, I forget to do it. When I finally make it into the garden, it’s invariably too late: as I stand looking at the faded mauve drooping mess, I know that, once again, I missed carrying out my personal resolution. And it doesn’t matter that the white tree peony is now in its full beauty, and after it, the pink one will unfold its own fragile petals: the only shrub I care about is the one with the red blooms.
Nevertheless, Sharon Old’s poetry is not self-indulgent; it is sensitive, well written and descriptive. Old’s “The Gold Cell” is divided into sections that seem to reflect periods of her life, her relationships, in Part One, with the world around her as experienced in the present time, then, in Part Two, her childhood and relationship with her parents, in Part Three, growing up and womanhood, and in Part Four, her children.
I particularly liked the poem “On the Subway” because of the implied tug-of-war between the poet and a young man sitting across from her on the train. Going beyond what may be perceived as just a reflection about an encounter in the subway, because of their different races and background, the poet ponders who has the power in the passenger-to-passenger relationship that is developing as they observe each other on the train. Is he in a position to take advantage of her by robbing her, or is she in fact taking advantage of him by enjoying privileges he obviously does not? Who is hunting whom, she seems to wonder. The poem ends without telling whether any exchange takes place between the two passengers, but the poet suggests that even if she were mugged, she would still have the upper hand and be the one taking advantage of someone else.
March 9, 2016
Anthologies are great: It's impossible for every poem in a collection to be amazing, but an anthology is the best of the best, all of the important parts mapped out and easily accessible. But it's also good to wade through a collection on your own, in an order the poet originally intended, marking off your own discoveries of the good and the bad. "The Gold Cell" has a very intentional structure, each part with a common theme as it relates to Olds' life. There is a feeling of development, as we watch her go from universal themes to her parents' suffering and her eventually finding her own happiness as a parent. A cell can be a prison or it can be an egg, full of life. That potential for good and bad in everything permeates this collection, and Sharon Olds returns to the idea that humans don't have to be locked into one or the other. We can choose to live, to not forget the bad, but to not let it hold us back. While she touches on this in individual poems, it takes the entire collection to get the full effect. "The Gold Cell" had my favorite kind of poems (where an ordinary occurrence results in a universal observation) and my least favorite (Freudian poems) -- it was worth getting them all together.
January 21, 2008
There are always good poems in an Olds collection. There are always cringeworthy poems in an Olds collection. That much said, the books are usually worth owning. I love the one in here written to the pope's penis, and the one about the man with his half-formed brother growing out of his chest. The visceral--and horror stories from the news (addressed in a punchy style) seem to be her two favorite themes and are her strong suits. Focusing on the Freudian family is her default mode when the Furies aren't cooperating. The poems are written in that style that will have many accusing her of writing lineated prose. She does go for the cheap & easy simile sometimes. But there's some pretty good stuff in here too. I recommend her.
August 12, 2008
Brilliant but tough to read because the subject matter is so personal; it's borderline confessional poetry. Then again, Olds is known for her frank, raw imagery.
This particular volume of poetry is divided into four sections that roughly correspond to four stages of her life: pre-birth/relationship between her parents, childhood/relationship with her parents, adolescence/relationships outside her family, and adulthood/motherhood. Not all of the poems are about Olds, though, and those that deviate are often both interesting and disturbing.
Still, her poems are powerful and go places where you don't expect them to while not necessarily surprising you. This is a good place to start if you want to read Olds's poetry.
This particular volume of poetry is divided into four sections that roughly correspond to four stages of her life: pre-birth/relationship between her parents, childhood/relationship with her parents, adolescence/relationships outside her family, and adulthood/motherhood. Not all of the poems are about Olds, though, and those that deviate are often both interesting and disturbing.
Still, her poems are powerful and go places where you don't expect them to while not necessarily surprising you. This is a good place to start if you want to read Olds's poetry.
January 6, 2015
The last section is my favorite, I love the way Olds writes about parenthood. I usually skim the middle section, I find her writing about sexuality uncomfortably raw and overdone. I do get a giggle over “The Pope’s Penis” but I feel a twinge of guilt when I read it. “The Green Shirt” about her son’s broken arm is one of my favorite poems, ever. The last line comes to my mind often as I raise my own children.
/our eyes fill, we cannot look at each other, we watch him carefully and kindly soap the damaged arm, he was given to us perfect, we had sworn no harm would come to him./
Another favorite line, from “Looking at Them Asleep”- /When love comes to me and says What do you know, I say This girl, this boy./
/our eyes fill, we cannot look at each other, we watch him carefully and kindly soap the damaged arm, he was given to us perfect, we had sworn no harm would come to him./
Another favorite line, from “Looking at Them Asleep”- /When love comes to me and says What do you know, I say This girl, this boy./
June 1, 2008
The first time I read this collection of poems, I was shocked out of my socks, and it felt good. The ways that family torments and saves - sometimes simultaneously - is a recurrent feature. Metaphors that strike home. Sometimes, you might feel after finishing one of her poems about family that your stomach has flipped inside-out and left you holding all the gross, gooey parts in your hands. Then, the moments of self-cleansing, self-clarification, and epiphany fall into place, and you're glad you read the book after all. Truth and humor are compacted in the very brief, very imagistic "The Pope's Penis" - something most of us have probably never bothered (or wanted) to contemplate.
February 7, 2011
Olds does a beautiful job falling between personal experience and generally relatable events. The Gold Cell is broken down into 4 different sections, each with its own personality. A personal favorite of mine is "I go back to May 1937." This poem intensifies a relationship of a girl looking at a photograph and her parents. She writes wishing they would have never gotten married, but quickly retracts with thanking her chance for life. Most of the book portrays a broken family and the resulting suffering. I found it interesting that in later publications of the book Olds took her children's names out and replaced them with "boy" and "girl."
November 16, 2011
I appreciate that Olds uses material from her life to make a beautiful poem. at times I find the sexual language to be a little too much, though. also at times i feel like the language could be a little more original or she could stray from her comfort zone to discover a different structure or tone, but if she did, she wouldn't be her. there are poets who stick to one mode and it works for them and that's what they are known for. and there are poets who differ so greatly in various poems that you couldn't pin them down for a voice. Olds is the first kind. that being said, although some don't like the last section, there were times when i felt very emotional, and i love "the quest".
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