Louise Glück

Home now. Stronger. Surer. Afraid, yes, but among you again. Again. Snowdrops Louise Glück 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

I was hurting, and I said, I'll burn this fucking house down. They worried that the neighbors will hear. Really? After everything that has happened, don't you think everybody already knows what's going on here? If you think otherwise then

Here. First Memory Louise Glück 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.

I suppose I am disgusted by this how this is turning out I've brought out all the sad poems because I can't cry and now this place is riddled with unshed tears and I am turning into a revolting heap

Finally finished with one of my projects, goodness. I've been writing that for two months. I feel emotionally, mentally and creatively drained. I hope my client is happy. As for me I just want to crawl back to bed and

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.,

Walking through this poem slowly. Castile Louise Glück Orange blossoms blowing over Castile children begging for coins I met my love under an orange tree or was it an acacia tree or was he not my love? I read this, then I dreamed this: can waking take back what

Someone told me today that I was too studious (ugh!) and then this poem came to mind and suddenly everything takes on a different meaning. Prism Louise Glück The assignment was to fall in love. The author was female. The ego had to

Visiting the graves today. Nostos Louise Glück There was an apple tree in the yard — this would have been forty years ago — behind, only meadows. Drifts off crocus in the damp grass. I stood at that window: late April. Spring flowers in the neighbor's yard. How many times,

I was blown away by this poem. I've read it five times in a row now. Witchgrass Louise Glück 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,