Louise Gluck Poems
|1.||The Racer's Widow||6/24/2015|
|5.||A Summer Garden||5/25/2016|
|11.||Early December in Croton-on-Hudson||5/25/2016|
|13.||The Empty Glass||5/25/2016|
|14.||End of Winter||5/25/2016|
|18.||Mother and Child||5/25/2016|
|20.||Parable of the Hostages||5/25/2016|
|21.||Parable of the Swans||5/25/2016|
|22.||Visitors from Abroad||5/25/2016|
|24.||A Myth of Devotion||6/15/2015|
|27.||The Drowned Children||5/25/2016|
|29.||The Myth Of Innocence||3/21/2015|
|36.||The Fear Of Burial||1/1/2004|
|39.||The Gold Lily||1/1/2004|
|40.||The White Lilies||1/1/2004|
I have a friend who still believes in heaven.
Not a stupid person, yet with all she knows, she literally talks to God.
She thinks someone listens in heaven.
On earth she's unusually competent.
Brave too, able to face unpleasantness.
We found a caterpillar dying in the dirt, greedy ants crawling over it.
I'm always moved by disaster, always eager to oppose vitality
But timid also, quick to shut my eyes.
Whereas my friend was able to watch, to let events play out
According to nature. For my sake she intervened
Brushing a few ants off the torn thing, and set it ...
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 about this new life.
Then they're in the cemetery, some of them
for the first time. They're frightened of crying,
sometimes of not crying. Someone leans over,