Louise Gluck

(22 April 1943 / New York / United States)

Louise Gluck Poems

41. The Silver Lily 1/1/2004
42. Vespers 1/1/2004
43. The Red Poppy 1/1/2004
44. Parable Of Faith 1/1/2004
45. Widows 1/1/2004
46. Summer 1/1/2004
47. The Untrustworthy Speaker 1/1/2004
48. The White Lilies 1/1/2004
49. Nostos 1/1/2004
50. Matins 1/1/2004
51. The Fear Of Burial 1/1/2004
52. Siren 1/1/2004
53. Snow 1/1/2004
54. Castile 1/1/2004
55. All Hallows 1/1/2004
56. Parable Of The Dove 1/1/2004
57. The Triumph Of Achilles 1/1/2004
58. Circe's Torment 1/1/2004
59. Lullaby 1/1/2004
60. Circe's Grief 1/1/2004
61. Odysseus' Decision 1/1/2004
62. Midnight 1/1/2004
63. Confession 1/1/2004
64. April 1/1/2004
65. Early Darkness 1/1/2004
66. Love Poem 1/1/2004
67. Snowdrops 1/1/2004
68. First Memory 1/1/2004
69. Happiness 1/1/2004
70. Circe's Power 1/1/2004
71. A Fantasy 1/1/2004
72. Horse 1/1/2004
73. October 11/21/2014
74. Celestial Music 1/1/2004
75. The Wild Iris 1/1/2004

Comments about Louise Gluck

  • shayze fudgelark (3/3/2018 5:47:00 PM)

    depressed!

    2 person liked.
    0 person did not like.
  • Savita Tyagi Savita Tyagi (10/14/2015 9:01:00 AM)

    wonderful! Such deep insight in emotional understanding.

  • Guillermo Fernandez (8/15/2014 12:26:00 PM)

    Everybody who loves poems by Louise Gluck should read this http: //t.co/YETrdfDzMT

  • Richard Beevor (5/28/2014 10:22:00 AM)

    All Hallows has a lovely dark chill that gives me a tingle, one of my favourite poems as of today, you are a wonderful poet, I wish I could aspire to your heights, thank you for your work.

  • Jacqui Thewless Jacqui Thewless (4/20/2010 11:00:00 AM)

    I'm wondering why my comment about Matins seems to have been repeated (not by myself) .

  • Sylva Portoian (12/12/2009 4:44:00 AM)

    I liked the Third Stanza:
    ' How can you understand me,
    if you can't understand your self.'

  • Jeff Dryer (2/19/2005 2:22:00 PM)

    This is not your poem. Good try though. Its by John Donne.

Best Poem of 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 the dry surface.

It is terrible to survive
as consciousness
buried in the dark earth.

Then it was over: that which you fear, being
a soul and unable
to speak, ending abruptly, the stiff earth
bending a little. And what I took to be
birds darting in low shrubs.

You who do not remember
passage from the other world
I tell you I could speak ...

Read the full of The Wild Iris

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 the toothed moon rises:

This is the barrenness

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