Born in 1943, Louise Glück is an American poet. She was born in New York City and grew up in Long Island. Her father helped invent the X-Acto Knife. Glück graduated in 1961 from George W. Hewlett High School, in Hewlett, New York. She went on to attend Sarah Lawrence College and Columbia University.
Glück won the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry in 1993 for her collection The Wild Iris. Glück is the recipient of the National Book Critics Circle Award (Triumph of Achilles), the Academy of American Poet's Prize (Firstborn), as well as numerous Guggenheim fellowships. She lives in Cambridge, Massachusetts, and was previously a Senior Lecturer in English at Williams College in Williamstown, ... more »
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Louise Gluck Poems
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.
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,
What does the horse give you That I cannot give you? I watch you when you are alone,
A man and a woman lie on a white bed. It is morning. I think Soon they will waken. On the bedside table is a vase
How can you say earth should give me joy? Each thing born is my burden; I cannot succeed with all of you.
No one's despair is like my despair-- You have no place in this garden thinking such things, producing
Long ago, I was wounded. I lived to revenge myself against my father, not for what he was--
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
I never turned anyone into a pig. Some people are pigs; I make them Look like pigs.
To say I'm without fear-- It wouldn't be true. I'm afraid of sickness, humiliation. Like anyone, I have my dreams.
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
The Wild Iris
At the end of my suffering there was a door. Hear me out: that which you call death
My mother's an expert in one thing: sending people she loves into the other world. The little ones, the babies--these she rocks, whispering or singing quietly. I can't say
In the end, I made myself Known to your wife as A god would, in her own house, in Ithaca, a voice
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
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(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
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 ...