Louise Gluck Poems
|41.||The Myth Of Innocence||3/21/2015|
|44.||The Racer's Widow||6/24/2015|
|45.||The Red Poppy||1/1/2004|
|46.||The Silver Lily||1/1/2004|
|47.||The Triumph Of Achilles||1/1/2004|
|48.||The Untrustworthy Speaker||1/1/2004|
|49.||The White Lilies||1/1/2004|
|50.||The Wild Iris||1/1/2004|
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 ...
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