Louise Gluck Poems

Orange blossoms blowing over Castile
children begging for coins

I met my love under an orange tree
...

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
...

No one's despair is like my despair--

You have no place in this garden
thinking such things, producing
...

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
...

To say I'm without fear--
It wouldn't be true.
I'm afraid of sickness, humiliation.
Like anyone, I have my dreams.
...

In the end, I made myself
Known to your wife as
A god would, in her own house, in
Ithaca, a voice
...

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
...

The great thing
is not having
a mind. Feelings:
oh, I have those; they
...

I regret bitterly
The years of loving you in both
Your presence and absence, regret
The law, the vocation
...

My mother's playing cards with my aunt,
Spite and Malice, the family pastime, the game
my grandmother taught all her daughters.
...