Sherry Chandler

Sharon Olds was invited to read at the National Book Festival in Washington, D.C. tomorrow and to dine with Laura Bush. She decided to decline and to make her regrets public in The Nation. An excerpt from that letter of regret below:

So the prospect of a festival of books seemed wonderful to me. I thought of the opportunity to talk about how to start up an outreach program. I thought of the chance to sell some books, sign some books and meet some of the citizens of Washington, DC. I thought that I could try to find a way, even as your guest, with respect, to speak about my deep feeling that we should not have invaded Iraq, and to declare my belief that the wish to invade another culture and another country–with the resultant loss of life and limb for our brave soldiers, and for the noncombatants in their home terrain–did not come out of our democracy but was instead a decision made “at the top” and forced on the people by distorted language, and by untruths. I hoped to express the fear that we have begun to live in the shadows of tyranny and religious chauvinism–the opposites of the liberty, tolerance and diversity our nation aspires to.

I tried to see my way clear to attend the festival in order to bear witness–as an American who loves her country and its principles and its writing–against this undeclared and devastating war.

But I could not face the idea of breaking bread with you. I knew that if I sat down to eat with you, it would feel to me as if I were condoning what I see to be the wild, highhanded actions of the Bush Administration.

What kept coming to the fore of my mind was that I would be taking food from the hand of the First Lady who represents the Administration that unleashed this war and that wills its continuation, even to the extent of permitting “extraordinary rendition”: flying people to other countries where they will be tortured for us.

So many Americans who had felt pride in our country now feel anguish and shame, for the current regime of blood, wounds and fire. I thought of the clean linens at your table, the shining knives and the flames of the candles, and I could not stomach it.

Sincerely,

Sharon Olds

When Charlie Whitt sent me this photo his brother took of a crow on the rim of the Grand Canyon, I was reminded of this old poem I somehow never could get quite right. I wrote it maybe a decade ago and nobody ever wanted to publish it. I think it is more fun in performance than on the page and so I’m including a sound file, just for the fun of it. Thank you to Charlie for sharing the photo.

“The Wind Won’t Lift Me”
            —Theodore Roethke

I want to stretch out my arms along my hollow bones
and ride the wind
I want to ride the trades with the albatross
I want to stretch out my wings and sail the seven seas
I want to sail the seven seas for seven seasons
without the smell of land
But the wind won’t lift me.

I want to glide the mountainous coasts with the condor
I want to glide up, up, over and down the Andes
I want to ride the Andes like a roller coaster
I want to ride the liquid ancient music of the flutes
as it rises from the canyons and the crags.
But the wind won’t lift me.

I am too well grounded
too solid in my flesh.

On the rim of the Grand Canyon
I want to spread my wings like the eagle
and ride the drafts that rise from the deeps of time.

On the rim of the Grand Canyon
the wind batters and whips until
I must twist like the stunted pines
but the wind won’t lift me
won’t companion me to that crow.
The wind won’t make me comrade to that crow
that soars and chatters aimlessly below.

I want to stretch out my wings along my hollow bones
and ride the wind
but the wind won’t life me.