Charles Olson

Imagine waking up to the words from a Charles Olson poem.

Not just any Olson poem, the poem that begins, 'in cold hell, in thicket'.

What you thought was morning light is evening light. You've slept past your bedtime. Not only have you missed work, you've missed your whole career.

When you finally come downstairs you take the collected poems of Olson down from the shelf to read the whole poem that begins with the words, 'in cold hell, in thicket'.

Olson's poem has such a promising beginning that you want to begin reading it again and again, but it's much too prolix, too long too, to read any more than once.

Other than the words 'in cold hell, in thicket' there's nothing in the poem you can really live by. So you close the book, make coffee, get on with the night and the day.