The Garden by Louise Glück
Terribly, terribly disappointed in people again. I don’t know why I bother. I’ve always told myself to trust no one, but like an idiot I go out and do the exact opposite. What did I expect? Fool. People lie, T., people only care about themselves. So why did I have to go about feeling that the world is genuine and true, that hope springs eternal, and all that shit. I only get burned, trampled on, shook to the core. In the end, this is where I am again: left to pick up the pieces, left to the horrible realization that I could only rely on myself from now on. People are no good. I should have learned this by now. This is what walls are for, this is why I hardly talk to anyone, this is why, given the chance, I would live alone in a small house by the mountain, or the sea perhaps, where no one would bother me with foolish ideas like trust, family, love, respect. This is why I never share my poems anymore, this is why I am like that old man who writes and writes and writes but hides from the world. Because the world is terrible. People are terrible.
The Garden
Louise GlückI 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 departureand they think
they are free to overlook
this sadness.
