Louise Gluck

The Wild Iris

At the end of my suffering There was a door. Hear me out: that which you call death I remember. Overhead, noises, branches of the pine shifting. Then nothing. The weak sun Flickered over

First Memory

Long ago, I was wounded. I lived To revenge myself Against my father, not For what he was For what I was: from the beginning of time, In childhood, I thought That pain meant

Snowdrops

Do you know what I was, how I lived? You know What despair is; then Winter should have meaning for you. I did not expect to survive, Earth suppressing me. I didn’t expect To

Horse

What does the horse give you That I cannot give you? I watch you when you are alone, When you ride into the field behind the dairy, Your hands buried in the mare’s Dark

Happiness

A man and a woman lie on a white bed. It is morning. I think Soon they will waken. On the bedside table is a vase Of lilies; sunlight Pools in their throats. I

Requiring something lovely on his arm Took me to Stamford, Connecticut, a quasi-farm, His family’s; later picking up the mammoth Girlfriend of Charlie, meanwhile trying to pawn me off On some third guy also

Early Darkness

How can you say Earth should give me joy? Each thing Born is my burden; I cannot succeed With all of you. And you would like to dictate to me, You would like to

Circe's Torment

I regret bitterly The years of loving you in both Your presence and absence, regret The law, the vocation That forbid me to keep you, the sea A sheet of glass, the sun-bleached Beauty

Summer

Remember the days of our first happiness, How strong we were, how dazed by passion, Lying all day, then all night in the narrow bed, Sleeping there, eating there too: it was summer, It

Saints

In our family, there were two saints, My aunt and my grandmother. But their lives were different. My grandmother’s was tranquil, even at the end. She was like a person walking in calm water;

The Garden

The garden admires you. For your sake it smears itself with green pigment, The ecstatic reds of the roses, So that you will come to it with your lovers. And the willows See how

The White Lilies

As a man and woman make A garden between them like A bed of stars, here They linger in the summer evening And the evening turns Cold with their terror: it Could all end,

Retreating Wind

When I made you, I loved you. Now I pity you. I gave you all you needed: Bed of earth, blanket of blue air As I get further away from you I see you

All Hallows

Even now this landscape is assembling. The hills darken. The oxen Sleep in their blue yoke, The fields having been Picked clean, the sheaves Bound evenly and piled at the roadside Among cinquefoil, as

Vespers

In your extended absence, you permit me Use of earth, anticipating Some return on investment. I must report Failure in my assignment, principally Regarding the tomato plants. I think I should not be encouraged

Snow

Late December: my father and I Are going to New York, to the circus. He holds me On his shoulders in the bitter wind: Scraps of white paper Blow over the railroad ties. My

The Silver Lily

The nights have grown cool again, like the nights Of early spring, and quiet again. Will Speech disturb you? We’re Alone now; we have no reason for silence. Can you see, over the garden-the

The Fear Of Burial

In the empty field, in the morning, The body waits to be claimed. The spirit sits beside it, on a small rock Nothing comes to give it form again. Think of the body’s loneliness.

The Pond

Night covers the pond with its wing. Under the ringed moon I can make out Your face swimming among minnows and the small Echoing stars. In the night air The surface of the pond

Midnight

Speak to me, aching heart: what Ridiculous errand are you inventing for yourself Weeping in the dark garage With your sack of garbage: it is not your job To take out the garbage, it

Circe's Power

I never turned anyone into a pig. Some people are pigs; I make them Look like pigs. I’m sick of your world That lets the outside disguise the inside. Your men weren’t bad men;

A Fantasy

I’ll tell you something: every day People are dying. And that’s just the beginning. Every day, in funeral homes, new widows are born, New orphans. They sit with their hands folded, Trying to decide

Cana

What can I tell you that you don’t know That will make you tremble again? Forsythia By the roadside, by Wet rocks, on the embankments Underplanted with hyacinth For ten years I was happy.

The Gold Lily

As I perceive I am dying now and know I will not speak again, will not Survive the earth, be summoned Out of it again, not A flower yet, a spine only, raw dirt

The Red Poppy

The great thing Is not having A mind. Feelings: Oh, I have those; they Govern me. I have A lord in heaven Called the sun, and open For him, showing him The fire of

Confession

To say I’m without fear It wouldn’t be true. I’m afraid of sickness, humiliation. Like anyone, I have my dreams. But I’ve learned to hide them, To protect myself From fulfillment: all happiness Attracts

Penelope's Song

Little soul, little perpetually undressed one, Do now as I bid you, climb The shelf-like branches of the spruce tree; Wait at the top, attentive, like A sentry or look-out. He will be home

Love Poem

There is always something to be made of pain. Your mother knits. She turns out scarves in every shade of red. They were for Christmas, and they kept you warm While she married over

The Triumph Of Achilles

In the story of Patroclus No one survives, not even Achilles Who was nearly a god. Patroclus resembled him; they wore The same armor. Always in these friendships One serves the other, one is

Lullaby

My mother’s an expert in one thing: Sending people she loves into the other world. The little ones, the babies these She rocks, whispering or singing quietly. I can’t say What she did for

The Untrustworthy Speaker

Don’t listen to me; my heart’s been broken. I don’t see anything objectively. I know myself; I’ve learned to hear like a psychiatrist. When I speak passionately, That’s when I’m least to be trusted.

Parousia

Love of my life, you Are lost and I am Young again. A few years pass. The air fills With girlish music; In the front yard The apple tree is Studded with blossoms. I

Circe's Grief

In the end, I made myself Known to your wife as A god would, in her own house, in Ithaca, a voice Without a body: she Paused in her weaving, her head turning First

Castile

Orange blossoms blowing over Castile Children begging for coins I met my love under an orange tree Or was it an acacia tree Or was he not my love? I read this, then I

April

No one’s despair is like my despair You have no place in this garden Thinking such things, producing The tiresome outward signs; the man Pointedly weeding an entire forest, The woman limping, refusing to

Odysseus' Decision

The great man turns his back on the island. Now he will not die in paradise Nor hear again The lutes of paradise among the olive trees, By the clear pools under the cypresses.

Poem

In the early evening, a now, as man is bending Over his writing table. Slowly he lifts his head; a woman Appears, carrying roses. Her face floats to the surface of the mirror, Marked

Matins

You want to know how I spend my time? I walk the front lawn, pretending To be weeding. You ought to know I’m never weeding, on my knees, pulling Clumps of clover from the

Portrait

A child draws the outline of a body. She draws what she can, but it is white all through, She cannot fill in what she knows is there. Within the unsupported line, she knows

Nostos

There was an apple tree in the yard This would have been Forty years ago behind, Only meadows. Drifts Of crocus in the damp grass. I stood at that window: Late April. Spring Flowers

The Wish

Remember that time you made the wish? I make a lot of wishes. The time I lied to you About the butterfly. I always wondered What you wished for. What do you think I

Parable Of Faith

Now, in twilight, on the palace steps The king asks forgiveness of his lady. He is not Duplicitous; he has tried to be True to the moment; is there another way of being True

Parable Of The Dove

A dove lived in a village. When it opened its mouth Sweetness came out, sound Like a silver light around The cherry bough. But The dove wasn’t satisfied. It saw the villagers Gathered to

Widows

My mother’s playing cards with my aunt, Spite and Malice, the family pastime, the game My grandmother taught all her daughters. Midsummer: too hot to go out. Today, my aunt’s ahead; she’s getting the

Siren

I became a criminal when I fell in love. Before that I was a waitress. I didn’t want to go to Chicago with you. I wanted to marry you, I wanted Your wife to