Louise Gluck Poems
|41.||Parable Of Faith||1/1/2004|
|42.||Parable Of The Dove||1/1/2004|
|43.||Parable of the Hostages||5/25/2016|
|44.||Parable of the Swans||5/25/2016|
|56.||The Drowned Children||5/25/2016|
|57.||The Empty Glass||5/25/2016|
|58.||The Fear Of Burial||1/1/2004|
|60.||The Gold Lily||1/1/2004|
|61.||The Myth Of Innocence||3/21/2015|
|64.||The Racer's Widow||6/24/2015|
|65.||The Red Poppy||1/1/2004|
|66.||The Silver Lily||1/1/2004|
|67.||The Triumph Of Achilles||1/1/2004|
|68.||The Untrustworthy Speaker||1/1/2004|
|69.||The White Lilies||1/1/2004|
|70.||The Wild Iris||1/1/2004|
|72.||Visitors from Abroad||5/25/2016|
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 ...
A Summer Garden
Several weeks ago I discovered a photograph of my mother
sitting in the sun, her face flushed as with achievement or triumph.
The sun was shining. The dogs
were sleeping at her feet where time was also sleeping,
calm and unmoving as in all photographs.
I wiped the dust from my mother's face.
Indeed, dust covered everything; it seemed to me the persistent
haze of nostalgia that protects all relics of childhood.