Louise Glück Quotes

Little soul, little perpetually undressed one,
do now as I bid you, climb
the shelf-like branches of the spruce tree;
wait at the top, attentive, like
a sentry or look-out. He will be home soon;
it behooves you to be
generous. You have not been completely
perfect either; with your troublesome body
you have done things you shouldn’t
discuss in poems. Therefore
call out to him over the open water, over the bright water
with your dark song, with your grasping,
unnatural song — passionate,
like Marie Callas. Who
wouldn’t want you? Whose most demonic appetite
could you possibly fail to answer? Soon
he will return from wherever he goes in the meantime,
suntanned from his time away, wanting
his grilled chicken. Ah, you must greet him,
you must shake the boughs of the tree
to get his attention,
but carefully, carefully, lest
his beautiful face be marred
by too many falling needles.

We look at the world once, in childhood. The rest is memory. from Nostos.

You know, he said, our work is difficult: we confront
much sorrow and disappointment.
He gazed at me with increasing frankness.
I was like you once, he added, in love with turbulence.

this is the light of autumn; it has turned
on us.
Surely it is a privilege to approach the
end
still believing in something.

Look at her, touching his cheek
to make a truce, her fingers
cool with spring rain;
in thin grass, bursts of purple crocus — even here, even at the beginning of love,
her hand leaving his face makes
an image of departure

and they think
they are free to overlook
this sadness.

it is
a bitter thing to be
the disposable animal,
a bitter thing.

I sleep so you will be alive,
it is that simple.

I expected better of two creatures
who were given minds: if not
that you would actually care for each other
at least that you would understand
grief is distributed
between you, among all your kind

How privileged you are, to be
passionately
clinging to what you love;
the forfeit of hope has not destroyed you.

We look at the world once, in childhood. The rest is memory.

What was difficult
was the travel, which,
on arrival, is forgotten.

She can't remember herself as that person
but she keeps thinking the pool will remember
and explain to her the meaning of her prayer
so she can understand
whether it was answered or not.

My bed usually looks like Proust’s bed; my whole life is lived there.

They say
there is a rift in the human soul
which was not constructed to belong
entirely to life.

Overhead, noises, branches of the pine shifting.
Then nothing. The weak sun
flickered over the dry surface. It is terrible to survive
as consciousness
buried in the dark earth.