جُرحتُ، منذ زمن بعيد. وعشتُ لكي أثأر لنفسي من والدي، ليس بسبب ما كان عليه، بل بسبب ما أنا عليه: منذ بدء الزمن أيّام الطفولة، فكّرتُ أنّ الألم يعني أنني لم أ… - Louise Glück

It seems to me that the desire to make art produces an ongoing experience of longing, a restlessness sometimes, but not inevitably, played out romantically, or sexually. Always there seems something ahead, the next poem or story, visible, at least, apprehensible, but unreachable. To perceive it at all is to be haunted by it; some sound, some tone, becomes a torment — the poem embodying that sound seems to exist somewhere already finished. It’s like a lighthouse, except that, as one swims towards it, it backs away.

"I write about you all the time, I said aloud. Every time I say "I", it refers to 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.