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Louise Gluck Short Poems

Famous Short Louise Gluck Poems. Short poetry by famous poet Louise Gluck. A collection of the all-time best Louise Gluck short poems


by Louise Gluck
 The great man turns his back on the island.
Now he will not die in paradise nor hear again the lutes of paradise among the olive trees, by the clear pools under the cypresses.
Time begins now, in which he hears again that pulse which is the narrative sea, ar dawn when its pull is stongest.
What has brought us here will lead us away; our ship sways in the tined harbor water.
Now the spell is ended.
Giove him back his life, sea that can only move forward.



by Louise Gluck
 Long ago, I was wounded.
I lived to revenge myself against my father, not for what he was-- for what I was: from the beginning of time, in childhood, I thought that pain meant I was not loved.
It meant I loved.

by Louise Gluck
 The stars are soft as flowers, and as near;
The hills are webs of shadow, slowly spun;
No separate leaf or single blade is here-
All blend to one.
No moonbeam cuts the air; a sapphire light Rolls lazily.
and slips again to rest.
There is no edged thing in all this night, Save in my breast.

by Louise Gluck
 Do you know what I was, how I lived? You know
what despair is; then
winter should have meaning for you.
I did not expect to survive, earth suppressing me.
I didn't expect to waken again, to feel in damp earth my body able to respond again, remembering after so long how to open again in the cold light of earliest spring-- afraid, yes, but among you again crying yes risk joy in the raw wind of the new world.

by Louise Gluck
 Softly lie down
and close your eyes so blue
worry no more
for tonight I'll watch over you

Gently rest your head
against my soothing chest
for here in my arms
you've found a safe place to rest

Sleep sweet child
in peaceful undisturbed dreams
and don't awake
until the morning beams


June 25, 2006
©2006 Fenny



by Louise Gluck
 Look, a butterfly.
Did you make a wish? You don't wish on butterflies.
You do so.
Did you make one? Yes.
It doesn't count.

by Louise Gluck
  for kelly

happiness is the stuff of birthdays
and the coming of sweet things
when they are not expected

happiness is when the moment
catches the sunlight and a giggle
comes out of darkness to take a look

happiness is when the body
rhymes with the heart and the whole
self flows like a mountain stream

happiness is when mischief
dances like stars in the fingers
and adults are nowhere in sight

happiness has its own clock
it comes in short ticks - then
it tocks where no one can find it

by Louise Gluck
 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.

by Louise Gluck
 In the end, I made myself
Known to your wife as
A god would, in her own house, in
Ithaca, a voice
Without a body: she
Paused in her weaving, her head turning
First to the right, then left
Though it was hopeless of course
To trace that sound to any
Objective source: I doubt
She will return to her loom
With what she knows now.
When You see her again, tell her This is how a god says goodbye: If I am in her head forever I am in your life forever.

by Louise Gluck
 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 Of harvest or pestilence And the wife leaning out the window With her hand extended, as in payment, And the seeds Distinct, gold, calling Come here Come here, little one And the soul creeps out of the tree.

by Louise Gluck
 The great thing
is not having
a mind.
Feelings: oh, I have those; they govern me.
I have a lord in heaven called the sun, and open for him, showing him the fire of my own heart, fire like his presence.
What could such glory be if not a heart? Oh my brothers and sisters, were you like me once, long ago, before you were human? Did you permit yourselves to open once, who would never open again? Because in truth I am speaking now the way you do.
I speak because I am shattered.

by Louise Gluck
 waiting for death
like a cat
that will jump on the
bed

I am so very sorry for
my wife

she will see this
stiff
white 
body
shake it once, then
maybe
again

"Hank!"

Hank won't
answer.
it's not my death that worries me, it's my wife left with this pile of nothing.
I want to let her know though that all the nights sleeping beside her even the useless arguments were things ever splendid and the hard words I ever feared to say can now be said: I love you.

by Louise Gluck
 In the empty field, in the morning,
the body waits to be claimed.
The spirit sits beside it, on a small rock-- nothing comes to give it form again.
Think of the body's loneliness.
At night pacing the sheared field, its shadow buckled tightly around.
Such a long journey.
And already the remote, trembling lights of the village not pausing for it as they scan the rows.
How far away they seem, the wooden doors, the bread and milk laid like weights on the table.

by Louise Gluck
 As I perceive
I am dying now and know
I will not speak again, will not
survive the earth, be summoned
out of it again, not
a flower yet, a spine only, raw dirt
catching my ribs, I call you,
father and master: all around,
my companions are failing, thinking
you do not see.
How can they know you see unless you save us? In the summer twilight, are you close enough to hear your child's terror? Or are you not my father, you who raised me?

by Louise Gluck
 The garden admires you.
For your sake it smears itself with green pigment, The ecstatic reds of the roses, So that you will come to it with your lovers.
And the willows-- See how it has shaped these green Tents of silence.
Yet There is still something you need, Your body so soft, so alive, among the stone animals.
Admit that it is terrible to be like them, Beyond harm.

by Louise Gluck
 She is coming, my own, my sweet;
Were it ever so airy a tread,
My heart would hear her and beat,
Were it earth in an earthy bed;
My dust would hear her and beat,
Had I lain for a century dead,
Would start and tremble under her feet,
And blossom in purple and red.