Free Poems 1962-2012 by Louise Glück

wanted more, the one gift
    reserved for another creation.
    Whatever you hoped,
    you will not find yourselves in the garden,
    among the growing plants.
    Your lives are not circular like theirs:
    your lives are the bird’s flight
    which begins and ends in stillness—
    which begins and ends, in form echoing
    this arc from the white birch
    to the apple tree.

THE GARDEN
    I couldn’t do it again,
    I can hardly bear to look at it—
    in the garden, in light rain
    the young couple planting
    a row of peas, as though
    no one has ever done this before,
    the great difficulties have never as yet
    been faced and solved—
    They cannot see themselves,
    in fresh dirt, starting up
    without perspective,
    the hills behind them pale green, clouded with flowers—
    She wants to stop;
    he wants to get to the end,
    to stay with the thing—
    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.

THE HAWTHORN TREE
    Side by side, not
    hand in hand: I watch you
    walking in the summer garden—things
    that can’t move
    learn to see; I do not need
    to chase you through
    the garden; human beings leave
    signs of feeling
    everywhere, flowers
    scattered on the dirt path, all
    white and gold, some
    lifted a little by
    the evening wind; I do not need
    to follow where you are now,
    deep in the poisonous field, to know
    the cause of your flight, human
    passion or rage: for what else
    would you let drop
    all you have gathered?

LOVE IN MOONLIGHT
    Sometimes a man or woman forces his despair
    on another person, which is called
    baring the heart, alternatively, baring the soul—
    meaning for this moment they acquired souls—
    outside, a summer evening, a whole world
    thrown away on the moon: groups of silver forms
    which might be buildings or trees, the narrow garden
    where the cat hides, rolling on its back in the dust,
    the rose, the coreopsis, and, in the dark, the gold
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â dome of the capitol
    converted to an alloy of moonlight, shape
    without detail, the myth, the archetype, the soul
    filled with fire that is moonlight really, taken
    from another source, and briefly
    shining as the moon shines: stone or not,
    the moon is still that much of a living thing.

APRIL
    No one’s despair is like my despair—
    You have no place in this garden
    thinking such things, producing
    the tiresome outward signs; the man
    pointedly weeding an entire forest,
    the woman limping, refusing to change clothes
    or wash her hair.
    Do you suppose I care
    if you speak to one another?
    But I mean you to know
    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, for me
    to know you, as deep blue
    marks the wild scilla, white
    the wood violet.

VIOLETS
    Because in our world
    something is always hidden,
    small and white,
    small and what you call
    pure, we do not grieve
    as you grieve, dear
    suffering master; you
    are no more lost
    than we are, under
    the hawthorn tree, the hawthorn holding
    balanced trays of pearls: what
    has brought you among us
    who would teach you, though
    you kneel and weep,
    clasping your great hands,
    in all your greatness knowing
    nothing of the soul’s nature,
    which is never to die: poor sad god,
    either you never have one
    or you never lose one.

WITCHGRASS
    Something
    comes into the world unwelcome
    calling disorder, disorder—
    If you hate me so much
    don’t bother to give me
    a name: do you need
    one more slur
    in your language, another
    way to blame
    one tribe for everything—
    as we both know,
    if you worship
    one god, you only need
    one enemy—
    I’m not the enemy.
    Only