Louise Glück

Louise Glück

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Louise Elisabeth Glück (/ɡlɪk/;born April 22, 1943) is an American poet and essayist. She won the 2020 Nobel Prize in Literature, whose judges praised "her unmistakable poetic voice that with austere beauty makes individual existence universal". Her other awards include the Pulitzer Prize, National Humanities Medal, National Book Award, National Book Critics Circle Award, and Bollingen Prize.
From 2003 to 2004, she was Poet Laureate of the United States.
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At the end of my suffering
there was a door.
Hear me out: that which you call death
I remember.
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You saved me, you should remember me.
The spring of the year; young men buying tickets for the ferryboats.
Laughter, because the air is full of apple blossoms.
When I woke up, I realized I was capable of the same feeling.
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Sometime after I had entered
that time of   life
people prefer to allude to in others
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Once I believed in you; I planted a fig tree.
Here, in Vermont, country
of no summer. It was a test: if the tree lived,
it would mean you existed.
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In your extended absence, you permit me
use of earth, anticipating
some return on investment. I must report
failure in my assignment, principally
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Don’t listen to me; my heart’s been broken.
I don’t see anything objectively.
I know myself; I’ve learned to hear like a psychiatrist.
When I speak passionately,
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Several weeks ago I discovered a photograph of my mother
sitting in the sun, her face flushed as with achievement or triumph.
The sun was shining. The dogs
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The nights have grown cool again, like the nights
of early spring, and quiet again. Will
speech disturb you? We're
alone now; we have no reason for silence.
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On a small lake off
the map of the world, two
swans lived. As swans,
they spent eighty percent of the day studying
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The Greeks are sitting on the beach
wondering what to do when the war ends. No one
wants to go home, back
to that bony island; everyone wants a little more
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Mother died last night,
Mother who never dies.
Winter was in the air,
many months away
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We’re all dreamers; we don’t know who we are.
Some machine made us; machine of the world, the constricting family.
Then back to the world, polished by soft whips.
We dream; we don’t remember.
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It is not the moon, I tell you.
It is these flowers
lighting the yard.
I hate them.
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On nights like this we used to swim in the quarry,
the boys making up games requiring them to tear off  the girls’ clothes
and the girls cooperating, because they had new bodies since last summer
and they wanted to exhibit them, the...
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Is that an attitude for a flower, to stand
like a club at the walk; poor slain boy,
is that a way to show
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—After Robert Pinsky
Defier of closed space, such as the head, opener
Of the sealed passageways, so that
Sunlight entering the nose can once again
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