Louise Gluck Poems
|41.||The White Lilies||1/1/2004|
|43.||The Silver Lily||1/1/2004|
|46.||Parable Of Faith||1/1/2004|
|47.||The Triumph Of Achilles||1/1/2004|
|48.||The Untrustworthy Speaker||1/1/2004|
|53.||Parable Of The Dove||1/1/2004|
|61.||The Red Poppy||1/1/2004|
|65.||The Wild Iris||1/1/2004|
Comments about Louise Gluck
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,
tells them what to do next, which might mean
saying a few words, sometimes
throwing dirt in the open grave.
And after that, everyone goes back to the house,
which is suddenly full of visitors.
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 the Fates' anger.
They are sisters, savages--
In the end they have
No emotion but envy.