Ode To Sharon Olds

Dear Sharon, I see no end To the rant of an educated mind Once the pen is moving. I've seen A students Butcher my writing. I remember the Fall Of 2009, the poetry workshop at Stony Brook University, The hipsters and emotional braggers Eying my work and telling me what it was about While the smirk on my face concealed The howls of piteous laughter. I walked the solemn paths Of that heavily decorated school Where trees had been uprooted And replaced by foster bushes, Convinced that my English professors Do not know how to read, but only how To dissect. However, I also remember the A on my report. It was the proudest one I'd ever had, And I thought of the first day of class When we were asked to choose a poet To fall in love with. I thought of the summer of 2006 When I walked into a little book store in Hampton Bays, Pointing my freckle tipped nose at the poetry section, Looking for something new To look up to or somebody else To look into. I picked through the leaves of Blood, Tin and Straw By the shelf, at the register and on the way to my car. I read it to friends and perfect strangers As a devout fan and penniless salesperson. I did not take notes or scribble on the pages. I did not create bull- in the hopes to expound Some undiscovered truth Between the style and context. I did not uncover the root of your sorrows and joy, For you had already done the task So perfectly. Mrs. Olds, you and I find solace In a dying art. I see you as a friend As I've seen you as A lover, a mother, and a mentor Through the gift of a vivid imagination Where I've been given the chance To love and applaud your work In the comfort of my room, Under the flickering light Where the renditions of your heart Lure me to sleep As a silent lullaby. It is an artist like you who keeps me writing. It is knowing the chances, That if my words can reach a soul Like yours have reached mine, Then there is still purpose in contemporary poetry In my home, my heart, and my spirit Outside of the classroom.