Louise Gluck Poems

Orange blossoms blowing over Castile
children begging for coins

I met my love under an orange tree
...

No one's despair is like my despair--

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

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
...

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.
...

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
...

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

In the story of Patroclus
no one survives, not even Achilles
who was nearly a god.
Patroclus resembled him; they wore
...

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

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
...