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Ararat
Louise Glück won the Pulitzer Prize for The Wild Iris in 1993. The author of eight books of poetry and one collection of essays, Proofs and Theories: Essays on Poetry, she has received the National Book Critics Circle Award for Poetry, the William Carlos Williams Award, and the PEN/Martha Albrand Award for Nonfiction. She was named the next U.S. poet laureate in August 2003. Her most recent book is The Seven Ages. Louise Glück teaches at Williams College and lives in Cambridge, Massachusetts.
68 pages, Paperback
First published June 1, 1992
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About the author
Louise Glück
95 books2,150 followersAmerican poet Louise Elisabeth Glück served as poet laureate of the United States from 2003 to 2004.
Parents of Hungarian Jewish heritage reared her on Long Island. She attended Sarah Lawrence College and later Columbia University.
She was the author of twelve books of poetry, including: A Village Life (2009); Averno (2006), which was a finalist for The National Book Award; The Seven Ages (2001); Vita Nova (1999), which was awarded The New Yorker's Book Award in Poetry; Meadowlands (1996); The Wild Iris (1992), which received the Pulitzer Prize and the William Carlos Williams Award of the Poetry Society of America; Ararat (1990), which received the Rebekah Johnson Bobbitt National Prize for Poetry from the Library of Congress. She also published a collection of essays, Proofs and Theories: Essays on Poetry (1994), which won the PEN/Martha Albrand Award for First Nonfiction.
In 2001, Yale University awarded Louise Glück its Bollingen Prize in Poetry, given biennially for a poet's lifetime achievement in his or her art. Her other honors include the Lannan Literary Award for Poetry, the Sara Teasdale Memorial Prize (Wellesley, 1986), the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry in 1993 for her collection, The Wild Iris . Glück is the recipient of the National Book Critics Circle Award ( Triumph of Achilles ), the Academy of American Poet's Prize ( Firstborn ), as well as the Massachusetts Institute of Technology Anniversary Medal (2000), and fellowships from the Guggenheim, Rockefeller foundations and the National Endowment for the Arts.
In 2020, Glück was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature, "for her unmistakable poetic voice that with austere beauty makes individual existence universal."
Glück also worked as a senior lecturer in English at Williams College in Williamstown, Massachusetts, served as a member of the faculty of the University of Iowa and taught at Goddard College in Vermont. She lived in Cambridge, Massachusetts, and teached as the Rosencranz writer in residence at Yale University and in the creative writing program of Boston University.
Parents of Hungarian Jewish heritage reared her on Long Island. She attended Sarah Lawrence College and later Columbia University.
She was the author of twelve books of poetry, including: A Village Life (2009); Averno (2006), which was a finalist for The National Book Award; The Seven Ages (2001); Vita Nova (1999), which was awarded The New Yorker's Book Award in Poetry; Meadowlands (1996); The Wild Iris (1992), which received the Pulitzer Prize and the William Carlos Williams Award of the Poetry Society of America; Ararat (1990), which received the Rebekah Johnson Bobbitt National Prize for Poetry from the Library of Congress. She also published a collection of essays, Proofs and Theories: Essays on Poetry (1994), which won the PEN/Martha Albrand Award for First Nonfiction.
In 2001, Yale University awarded Louise Glück its Bollingen Prize in Poetry, given biennially for a poet's lifetime achievement in his or her art. Her other honors include the Lannan Literary Award for Poetry, the Sara Teasdale Memorial Prize (Wellesley, 1986), the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry in 1993 for her collection, The Wild Iris . Glück is the recipient of the National Book Critics Circle Award ( Triumph of Achilles ), the Academy of American Poet's Prize ( Firstborn ), as well as the Massachusetts Institute of Technology Anniversary Medal (2000), and fellowships from the Guggenheim, Rockefeller foundations and the National Endowment for the Arts.
In 2020, Glück was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature, "for her unmistakable poetic voice that with austere beauty makes individual existence universal."
Glück also worked as a senior lecturer in English at Williams College in Williamstown, Massachusetts, served as a member of the faculty of the University of Iowa and taught at Goddard College in Vermont. She lived in Cambridge, Massachusetts, and teached as the Rosencranz writer in residence at Yale University and in the creative writing program of Boston University.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 352 reviews
October 15, 2023
Incredibly focused, personal and intense. Gripping is not a word that often comes to mind in respect to poetry. It is well deserved for this bundle, that seems to fling a scalpel in full force, taking on human relations and mortality.
I was born to a vocation:
to bear witness
to the great mysteries.
- Parados
Sad to hear Gluck passed yesterday! This is one of my favorite bundles of her, due for a reread, give how death is omnipresent in this bundle, with a sister dying in childbirth and a father passing away at old age.
The mother of the poet in that sense is centre to the bundle, lovingly but als unflinchingly portrayed.
The soul’s like all matter:
why would it stay intact, stay faithful to its one form,
when it could be free?
- Lullaby
Incredibly observant and very familiar, these musings on the relationship between a mother and father:
As I saw it,
all my mother’s life, my father
held her down, like
lead strapped to her ankles.
She was
buoyant by nature;
she wanted to travel,
go to theater, go to museums.
What he wanted
was to lie on the couch
with the Times
over his face,
so that death, when it came,
wouldn’t seem a significant change.
In couples like this,
where the agreement
is to do things together,
it's always the active one
who concedes, who gives.
You can't go to museums
with someone who won't
open his eyes.
I thought my father's death
would free my mother.
In a sense, it has:
she takes trips, looks at
great art. But she's floating.
Like some child's balloon
that gets lost the minute
it isn't held.
Or like an astronaut
who somehow loses the ship
and has to drift in space
knowing, however long it lasts,
this is what's left of being alive: she's free
in that sense.
Without relation to earth.
- New World
The relationship with her son is also an interesting subject, definitely in conversation with her own relationship to her mother:
My mother wants to know
why, if I hate
family so much,
I went ahead and
had one. I don’t
answer my mother.
What I hated
was being a child,
having no choice about
what people I loved.
I don’t love my son
the way I meant to love him.
I thought I’d be
the lover of orchids who finds
red trillium growing
in the pine shade, and doesn’t
touch it, doesn’t need
to possess it. What I am
is the scientist,
who comes to that flower
with a magnifying glass
and doesn’t leave, though
the sun burns a brown
circle of grass around
the flower. Which is
more or less the way
my mother loved me.
I must learn
to forgive my mother,
now that I am helpless
to spare my son.
- Brown Circle
The (living) sister relationship is also captured in a crystalline, almost terrifying manner:
My sister and I reached
the same conclusion:
the best way
to love us was to not
spend time with us.
It seemed that
we appealed
chiefly to strangers.
We had good clothes, good
manners in public.
In private, we were
always fighting. Usually
the big one finished
sitting on her little one
and pinching her.
The little one
bit: in forty years
she never learned
the advantage in not
leaving a mark.
The parents
had a credo: they didn't
believe in anger.
The truth was, for different reasons,
they couldn't bring themselves
to inflict pain. You should only hurt
something you can give
your whole heart to. They preferred
tribunals: the child
most in the wrong could choose
her own punishment.
My sister and I
never became allies,
never turned on our parents.
We had
other obsessions: for example,
we both felt there were
too many of us
to survive.
We were like animals
trying to share a dry pasture.
Between us, one tree, barely
strong enough to sustain
a single life.
We never moved
our eyes from each other
nor did either touch
one thing that could
feed her sister.
- Animals
Or:
She doesn’t know what it once was.
But I know. Like Adam,
I was the firstborn.
Believe me, you never heal,
you never forget the ache in your side,
the place where something was taken away
to make another person.
- Paradise
Even cousins don’t get of lightly or in an idyllic, quaint manner:
It’s as though he was born rejecting
the solitude of the victor.
My sister’s daughter doesn’t have that problem.
She may as well be first; she’s already alone.
- Cousins
Even friends are cast in a clear, almost blazing light in Ararat:
My friend says I shut my eyes to God, that nothing else explains
My aversion to reality. She says I'm like the child who
Buries her head in the pillow
So as not to see, the child who tells herself
That light causes sadness-
- Celestial Music
An finally an ending as a blow to the solar plexus, catharsis through pain:
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.
- First Memory
I was born to a vocation:
to bear witness
to the great mysteries.
- Parados
Sad to hear Gluck passed yesterday! This is one of my favorite bundles of her, due for a reread, give how death is omnipresent in this bundle, with a sister dying in childbirth and a father passing away at old age.
The mother of the poet in that sense is centre to the bundle, lovingly but als unflinchingly portrayed.
The soul’s like all matter:
why would it stay intact, stay faithful to its one form,
when it could be free?
- Lullaby
Incredibly observant and very familiar, these musings on the relationship between a mother and father:
As I saw it,
all my mother’s life, my father
held her down, like
lead strapped to her ankles.
She was
buoyant by nature;
she wanted to travel,
go to theater, go to museums.
What he wanted
was to lie on the couch
with the Times
over his face,
so that death, when it came,
wouldn’t seem a significant change.
In couples like this,
where the agreement
is to do things together,
it's always the active one
who concedes, who gives.
You can't go to museums
with someone who won't
open his eyes.
I thought my father's death
would free my mother.
In a sense, it has:
she takes trips, looks at
great art. But she's floating.
Like some child's balloon
that gets lost the minute
it isn't held.
Or like an astronaut
who somehow loses the ship
and has to drift in space
knowing, however long it lasts,
this is what's left of being alive: she's free
in that sense.
Without relation to earth.
- New World
The relationship with her son is also an interesting subject, definitely in conversation with her own relationship to her mother:
My mother wants to know
why, if I hate
family so much,
I went ahead and
had one. I don’t
answer my mother.
What I hated
was being a child,
having no choice about
what people I loved.
I don’t love my son
the way I meant to love him.
I thought I’d be
the lover of orchids who finds
red trillium growing
in the pine shade, and doesn’t
touch it, doesn’t need
to possess it. What I am
is the scientist,
who comes to that flower
with a magnifying glass
and doesn’t leave, though
the sun burns a brown
circle of grass around
the flower. Which is
more or less the way
my mother loved me.
I must learn
to forgive my mother,
now that I am helpless
to spare my son.
- Brown Circle
The (living) sister relationship is also captured in a crystalline, almost terrifying manner:
My sister and I reached
the same conclusion:
the best way
to love us was to not
spend time with us.
It seemed that
we appealed
chiefly to strangers.
We had good clothes, good
manners in public.
In private, we were
always fighting. Usually
the big one finished
sitting on her little one
and pinching her.
The little one
bit: in forty years
she never learned
the advantage in not
leaving a mark.
The parents
had a credo: they didn't
believe in anger.
The truth was, for different reasons,
they couldn't bring themselves
to inflict pain. You should only hurt
something you can give
your whole heart to. They preferred
tribunals: the child
most in the wrong could choose
her own punishment.
My sister and I
never became allies,
never turned on our parents.
We had
other obsessions: for example,
we both felt there were
too many of us
to survive.
We were like animals
trying to share a dry pasture.
Between us, one tree, barely
strong enough to sustain
a single life.
We never moved
our eyes from each other
nor did either touch
one thing that could
feed her sister.
- Animals
Or:
She doesn’t know what it once was.
But I know. Like Adam,
I was the firstborn.
Believe me, you never heal,
you never forget the ache in your side,
the place where something was taken away
to make another person.
- Paradise
Even cousins don’t get of lightly or in an idyllic, quaint manner:
It’s as though he was born rejecting
the solitude of the victor.
My sister’s daughter doesn’t have that problem.
She may as well be first; she’s already alone.
- Cousins
Even friends are cast in a clear, almost blazing light in Ararat:
My friend says I shut my eyes to God, that nothing else explains
My aversion to reality. She says I'm like the child who
Buries her head in the pillow
So as not to see, the child who tells herself
That light causes sadness-
- Celestial Music
An finally an ending as a blow to the solar plexus, catharsis through pain:
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.
- First Memory
April 30, 2017
Poetry begets poetry. Or poor prose, like this. Better yet, good poetry takes you to a deeper silence. You are stirred. I found the book or it found me by happenstance, walking by my daughter's shelves. She (my daughter now grown) had plucked it from my unread pile many years ago. And I read it, to be close to her, this way. The author let me be close to the poem's narrator, in a way that was unexpectedly raw and honest. A closeness. Not love or friendship, exactly. It was like being allowed into a childhood house you return to, now in ruins. In this room my father's slow death. There my sister's anger. Here my hunger unanswered. Rooms we all have in our houses but lack the courage to go in, much less to let anyone else in. Still, there was a distance between the "I" of the poems and the poet. There was no adolescent gushing here. Autobiography was transformed. The personal was universal. It wasn't the poet's soul I was being privy too but a soul created by the effort of art and thought and in that way my own soul. Why? I wondered at the poet's urge, the inner need for such truth, no longer confession but an illumination of mystery, a mirror of sorts. What did she want to give me and why? For surely, if it was just expression, the inner impulse would have been accomplished in the writing itself without the need to share. So there must be something else behind the careful placing of each simple word. She must have had me or someone like me in mind as she wrote. And impressing me was not the motive. She wanted me to understand what I read even if the words final meaning was only evoked, hinted at. Nor was she after my love or even my friendship exactly. Louise Gluck had some good, some gift in mind. As if she sought to transmit the need to communicate itself, the searching and looking being the only truth. Not the kind of good I would ordinarily seek on my own, all things considered. Because longing can hurt. Feeling can be hard. So I have to conclude it was the book that came out to find me. For my own good.
November 25, 2020
...it's her only hope,
the wish to move backward.
And just a little,
not so far as the marriage, the first kiss.
***
It comes to nothing, really, hardly
a moment on earth.
Not a sentence, but a breath, a caesura.
***
I know myself, I've learned to hear like a psychiatrist.
***
The soul is silent. If it speaks at all it speaks in dreams.
***
Your friends the living embrace one another,
gossip a little on the sidewalk
as the sun sinks, and the evening breeze
ruffles the women's shawls-
this, this, is the meaning of
"a fortunate life": it means
to exist in the present.
***
We're very quiet. It's peaceful sitting here,
not speaking, the composition fixed,
the road turning suddenly dark,
the air going cool,
here and there the rocks
shining and glittering-
it's this stillness that we both love.
The love of form is a love of endings.
the wish to move backward.
And just a little,
not so far as the marriage, the first kiss.
***
It comes to nothing, really, hardly
a moment on earth.
Not a sentence, but a breath, a caesura.
***
I know myself, I've learned to hear like a psychiatrist.
***
The soul is silent. If it speaks at all it speaks in dreams.
***
Your friends the living embrace one another,
gossip a little on the sidewalk
as the sun sinks, and the evening breeze
ruffles the women's shawls-
this, this, is the meaning of
"a fortunate life": it means
to exist in the present.
***
We're very quiet. It's peaceful sitting here,
not speaking, the composition fixed,
the road turning suddenly dark,
the air going cool,
here and there the rocks
shining and glittering-
it's this stillness that we both love.
The love of form is a love of endings.
October 27, 2020
To say I'm without fear—
it wouldn't be true.
I'm afraid of sickness, humiliation.
Like anyone, I have my dreams.
Bit I've learned to hide them,
to protect myself
from fulfillment: all happiness
attracts the Fates' anger.
They are sisters, savages—
in the end, they have
no emotion but envy.
February 10, 2022
The thing with Louise Glück is you know what you're getting. If it's cheerful you're shopping for, stay away from the store and shop on-line. Her work is almost impossibly stark, not only in its diction but in its content. Topics typically circle the family -- Mom, Dad, sister, son, (not husband in this particular book) -- and, oh yeah, that favorite topic of poets and this one in particular, Death (you were expecting spring flowers?).
Probably you wouldn't want to be in Glück's immediate family. If you were, her poetry would become a mirror -- a place you find yourself frequently. I don't know what it is about fathers and strong women poets. In some cases (like, say, Marie Howe) the father is abusive; in others, like Glück's, he's just distant, uncommunicative, unloving. In one poem, the last time she sees him alive, he raises his hand to wave goodbye as she leaves. That, she says, is the most emotion he's ever shown her.
Ouch. No wonder Glück grew up to be a poet. Relief! Release! Redemption! But it makes it seem the Y-chromosome cripples all males of the species.
Anyway, as a great admirer of her most recent book, Winter Recipes from the Collective, I was happy to read deeper into her roots, in this case, going all the way back to 1990 (surely you recall the year). The sister thing persists in the most recent book, only more muted than you get here.
Two examples from Ararat:
Confession
To say I'm without fear --
it wouldn't be true.
I'm afraid of sickness, humiliation.
Like anyone, I have my dreams.
But I've learned to hide them,
to protect myself
from fulfillment: all happiness
attracts the Fates' anger.
They are sisters, savages --
in the end, they have
no emotion but envy.
Lament
Suddenly, after you die, those friends
who never agreed about anything
agree about your character.
They're like a houseful of singers rehearsing
the same score:
you were just, you were kind, you lived a fortunate life.
No harmony. No counterpoint. Except
they're not performers;
real tears are shed.
Luckily, you're dead; otherwise
you'd be overcome with revulsion.
But when that's passed,
when the guests begin filing out, wiping their eyes
because, after a day like this,
shut in with orthodoxy,
the sun's amazingly bright,
though it's late afternoon, September --
when the exodus begins,
that's when you'd feel
pangs of envy.
Your friends the living embrace one another,
gossip a little on the sidewalk
as the sun sinks, and the evening breeze
ruffles the women's shawls --
this, this, is the meaning of
"a fortunate life": it means
to exist in the present.
I think the Buddha would approve of that final line, although he'd take issue with the death part. Does anything really get born and die, just like that?
Probably you wouldn't want to be in Glück's immediate family. If you were, her poetry would become a mirror -- a place you find yourself frequently. I don't know what it is about fathers and strong women poets. In some cases (like, say, Marie Howe) the father is abusive; in others, like Glück's, he's just distant, uncommunicative, unloving. In one poem, the last time she sees him alive, he raises his hand to wave goodbye as she leaves. That, she says, is the most emotion he's ever shown her.
Ouch. No wonder Glück grew up to be a poet. Relief! Release! Redemption! But it makes it seem the Y-chromosome cripples all males of the species.
Anyway, as a great admirer of her most recent book, Winter Recipes from the Collective, I was happy to read deeper into her roots, in this case, going all the way back to 1990 (surely you recall the year). The sister thing persists in the most recent book, only more muted than you get here.
Two examples from Ararat:
Confession
To say I'm without fear --
it wouldn't be true.
I'm afraid of sickness, humiliation.
Like anyone, I have my dreams.
But I've learned to hide them,
to protect myself
from fulfillment: all happiness
attracts the Fates' anger.
They are sisters, savages --
in the end, they have
no emotion but envy.
Lament
Suddenly, after you die, those friends
who never agreed about anything
agree about your character.
They're like a houseful of singers rehearsing
the same score:
you were just, you were kind, you lived a fortunate life.
No harmony. No counterpoint. Except
they're not performers;
real tears are shed.
Luckily, you're dead; otherwise
you'd be overcome with revulsion.
But when that's passed,
when the guests begin filing out, wiping their eyes
because, after a day like this,
shut in with orthodoxy,
the sun's amazingly bright,
though it's late afternoon, September --
when the exodus begins,
that's when you'd feel
pangs of envy.
Your friends the living embrace one another,
gossip a little on the sidewalk
as the sun sinks, and the evening breeze
ruffles the women's shawls --
this, this, is the meaning of
"a fortunate life": it means
to exist in the present.
I think the Buddha would approve of that final line, although he'd take issue with the death part. Does anything really get born and die, just like that?
October 14, 2023
No one could write a novel about this family:
too many similar characters. Besides, they’re all women;
there was only one hero.
Now the hero’s dead. Like echoes, the women last longer;
they’re all too tough for their own good.
The Noble Citation – for this the fifth collection of poetry published by the 2020 Noble Laureate - specifically references this collection saying
“In Ararat three characteristics unite to subsequently recur in her writing: the topic of family life; austere intelligence; and a refined sense of composition that marks the book as a whole. Glück has also pointed out that in these poems she realized how to employ ordinary diction in her poetry. The deceptively natural tone is striking. We encounter almost brutally straightforward images of painful family relations. It is candid and uncompromising, with no trace of poetic ornament.”
She has said that this collection “many objected to the absence of the heroic, of myth making [my comment - as seen in her "Triumph of Achilles" in particular] – to do away with figurative language is to do away with the transformative impulse that is poetry’s ancient source and object. But these repudiations seemed to me potentially rich, certainly they are the book’s essence”
It is clear for Glück that the collections are important in their entirety – “much thoughts went into their shaping … I felt, even before I could read, that a book was a holy object; this awe perpetuates itself in each attempt to make of a pile of poems, a speaking whole” and in particular with her vision for this collection that “the approach would work only if it made a single breath, a book completely unified”.
And I very much appreciate this approach: this collection not only has strongly recurring themes, but effectively features the same set of characters.
These they both reinforced and enhanced my appreciation of the individual poems and meant that the overall collection has some of the feel of a free verse impressionistic novella – although as the opening poem makes clear, doing something a novel cannot do.
As a reader of novels (150+ each year) and very reluctant reader of poetry (generally no poems at all before 2021) this made this collection perfectly suited to starting with but developing my literary tastes.
And in featuring the death of a father, meant the book was unfortunately only to suited to my own circumstances in late 2020 (and I am posting this review on what would have been my father's 85th birthday).
The collection seems heavily autobiographical: the narrator of the poems is the oldest of two surviving sisters (an earlier girl having died as a baby) – and has recently lost her father.
Two women with
the same claim
came to the feet of
the wise king. Two women,
but only one baby.
The king knew
someone was lying.
What he said was
Let the child be
cut in half; that way
no one will go
empty-handed. He
drew his sword.
Then, of the two
women, one
renounced her share:
this was
the sign, the lesson.
Suppose
you saw your mother
torn between two daughters:
what could you do
to save her but be
willing to destroy
yourself—she would know
who was the rightful child,
the one who couldn’t bear
to divide the mother.
Many of the poems circle around the family dynamics:
her father’s lack of ambition, focus on death and refusal to engage emotionally;
her mother’s reaction to the death and life she has witnessed (I particularly loved “Lullaby”);
the inevitable rivalry between the two sisters (brilliantly captured in “Appearances” – and itself a continuation of a rivalry between her mother and her aunt – both of whom lost baby girls);
the cousinly contrasts between her son and her niece;
the narrators aversion to her family and distancing from her mother captured in “A Fable” – a breathtaking reconceptualising of Solomon’s judgement in 1 Kings 3: 16-28 – see above);
the implications for the narrator when she decides to have her own family (something she examines in “Brown Circle”, while “Children Coming Home from School” captures a whole range of family relations and dynamics in only a few short lines)
And underlying it all we have the effect on the narrator, and the choices she has made both the opening and closing poems starting “Long ago, I was wounded”.
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.
Overall – outstanding.
December 31, 2019
In this collection of poetry, a semi-autobiographical narrator tells about the relationships in a family. There are poems about the death of her newborn sister, sibling rivalry with her other sister, the early death of her father, and her mother reacting to these losses. Ararat also includes poems about being a parent herself, and struggling to connect to her own child. Ararat's poems are accessible to most readers, and deal with grief and family dynamics in an unsentimental way.
Both the first and last poems in Ararat start with the line, "Long ago, I was wounded." By the last poem, the narrator is coming to terms with her silent, undemonstrative father, and understanding him and herself better.
First Memory
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.
Both the first and last poems in Ararat start with the line, "Long ago, I was wounded." By the last poem, the narrator is coming to terms with her silent, undemonstrative father, and understanding him and herself better.
First Memory
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.
June 23, 2021
I am not a lover of poetry books, but I believe that every now and then we should make a foray into this field as well. I chose none other than a Nobel Prize poetess like Louise Glück, of whom I don't know any work, but given that the motivation for winning the Nobel Prize last year (2020) was: "for her unmistakable poetic voice that with austere beauty makes the existence of the individual universal ”I was intrigued.
Her poetry is poignant, sad, with very melancholy tones, where there is much talk of death and the brevity of life. To me, who immensely likes the Spoon River Anthology (see the review), this book seemed like a kind of Gluck's personal Spoon River, a journey back in time to understand the meaning of life, the brevity of existence. A collection of poems to discover pain, compassion but also love and tenderness, wandering through the cemetery of Ararat, seeing the graves of people known, loved, hated, what flowers they have, if their graves are cared for or abandoned. An inner journey that the author tries to make universal, to share it with the reader.
It is not an easy reading; what remains impressed is that the beginning of each poem is the piece that impacts most of all, then slowly the emotion descends. Sometimes, however, in the first two lines the poem seems to take a direction, which then a single word changes completely, like a real twist. All in all, however, it is not a book that stays with you like Spoon River, so I give it a 3 basic stars.
Her poetry is poignant, sad, with very melancholy tones, where there is much talk of death and the brevity of life. To me, who immensely likes the Spoon River Anthology (see the review), this book seemed like a kind of Gluck's personal Spoon River, a journey back in time to understand the meaning of life, the brevity of existence. A collection of poems to discover pain, compassion but also love and tenderness, wandering through the cemetery of Ararat, seeing the graves of people known, loved, hated, what flowers they have, if their graves are cared for or abandoned. An inner journey that the author tries to make universal, to share it with the reader.
It is not an easy reading; what remains impressed is that the beginning of each poem is the piece that impacts most of all, then slowly the emotion descends. Sometimes, however, in the first two lines the poem seems to take a direction, which then a single word changes completely, like a real twist. All in all, however, it is not a book that stays with you like Spoon River, so I give it a 3 basic stars.
December 15, 2021
Po przeczytaniu pierwszego wiersza powiedziałam sobie pod nosem "zajebiste, gratuluję Nobla" i oczywiście wiem, że to nie mnie decydować, i że moja opinia cóż, może coś tam dla kogoś znaczy, ale kim ja jestem, by oceniać prace wielkich poetek, ale NAPRAWDĘ TE WIERSZE SĄ REWELACYJNE oszczędne, a jednak bogate w ukryte metafory, świetnie się uzupełniające, wciągają nas do bardzo konkretnego świata, świata przeżyć poetki, a jednak nie można nie myśleć o własnych doświadczeniach i własnych relacjach. Świetnie mi się o tych wierszach rozmawiało i świetnie mi się je czytało na głos.
August 10, 2023
Addocchiai "Ararat" di Louise Glück nella biblioteca da me diverse volte, lo sfogliavo e risfogliavo incuriosito. Dapprima la copertina, come sempre le copertine de Il Saggiatore sono enigmatiche, con uno stile stilizzato, ma ricco di reminiscenze di vario tipo. Qui ci vedevo il deserto, sia geografico che psicologico, la natura desertica appunto e nel mezzo il profilo di un volto umano, appunto la rappresentazione dell'animo umano nell'immensità "desertica" del travagliato vivere? Forse troppo tragico? Ma se analizziamo anche il titolo: Ararat, il monte della Bibbia (reminiscenze di religione a scuola o a catechismo, non che io abbia mai letto la Bibbia eh!? :-P), comunque Ararat, letteralmente in italiano "Montagna del dolore". Così m'immergo nella poetica, anzi in questa specifica poetica dell'autrice, vincitrice del premio Nobel per la letteratura nel 2020, dove il dolore interiore è espresso con una tale delicatezza, ma anche con uno stile malinconico ed aspro.
Da recuperare assolutamente!
Favola
Due donne con
la stessa richiesta
si prostrano ai piedi
del saggio re. Due donne
ma soltanto un bambino.
Il re sapeva
che una di loro mentiva.
Quel che disse fu
Tagliate il bambino
a metà: in questo modo
nessuna se ne andrà
a mani vuote.
E sfoderò la spada.
Allora, delle due
donne, una
rinunciò alla sua parte:
questo fu
il segno, la lezione.
Supponi
di vedere tua madre
divisa tra due figlie:
cosa dovresti fare
per salvarla se non essere
disposta a distruggere
te stessa - lei capirebbe
quale bambina è la sua,
quella che non può sopportare
di dividere la madre.
Da recuperare assolutamente!
Favola
Due donne con
la stessa richiesta
si prostrano ai piedi
del saggio re. Due donne
ma soltanto un bambino.
Il re sapeva
che una di loro mentiva.
Quel che disse fu
Tagliate il bambino
a metà: in questo modo
nessuna se ne andrà
a mani vuote.
E sfoderò la spada.
Allora, delle due
donne, una
rinunciò alla sua parte:
questo fu
il segno, la lezione.
Supponi
di vedere tua madre
divisa tra due figlie:
cosa dovresti fare
per salvarla se non essere
disposta a distruggere
te stessa - lei capirebbe
quale bambina è la sua,
quella che non può sopportare
di dividere la madre.
October 8, 2020
2020 Nobel edebiyat ödülüne layık görüldüğü bugün açıklanan Amerikalı şair Louise Glück’ün adını 2000’li yılların başlarında Selçuk Altun’un yazılarından duymuştum. (Fanatik bir Glück hayranı olan Altun herhalde bugün çok mutlu olmuştur.) Ve bu değinmelerin teşvikiyle o yıllarda ben de Glück’ün iki kitabını almıştım; 1990 basımı Ararat ve 1992 basımı Wild Iris. O zaman okuduğumda doğrusu pek etkilenmemiştim. Arada bu kitaplara elim tekrar gitmiş, ama bu fikrimde pek bir değişiklik olmamıştı. Bugünkü Nobel haberinden sonra akşam tekrar okudum bu iki kitabı. Şöyle diyeyim; Türkçe’de Glück’ten üstün en az 20 şair çıkar. Nobel edebiyat ödülü komitesi zaten skandalları ve ilginç tercihleriyle epey itibar kaybına uğramıştı. Bu yılki tercihi de muhtemelen sorgulanacaktır.
Ararat’a gelelim. Öncelikle Ararat’ın, kitaba ismini veren şiir dahil, Ağrı Dağıyla veya Ermenilikle bir ilgisi yok. Rahat nefes alabilir yani bizdeki bazı çevreler... Ararat ağırlıkla bir yas kitabı. Özyaşamöyküsel niteliğinin ağır bastığı anlaşılıyor. Kayıp, ölüm, aile içi gerginlikler temalarını işleyen karanlık şiirler. Birinci tekil şahıstan yazılmış. Evet, birkaç etkileyici şiir var. Ama genelinde ben pek bir özellik, derinlik, çarpıcılık bulamadım.
Tabii bunlar benim tamamen amatör yorumlarım. Yoksa Glück Amerikan entelektüel çevrelerinde neredeyse yere göğe konulamayan bir şair konumunda. Zevk ya da kendi adıma idrak meselesi diyelim.
Ararat’a gelelim. Öncelikle Ararat’ın, kitaba ismini veren şiir dahil, Ağrı Dağıyla veya Ermenilikle bir ilgisi yok. Rahat nefes alabilir yani bizdeki bazı çevreler... Ararat ağırlıkla bir yas kitabı. Özyaşamöyküsel niteliğinin ağır bastığı anlaşılıyor. Kayıp, ölüm, aile içi gerginlikler temalarını işleyen karanlık şiirler. Birinci tekil şahıstan yazılmış. Evet, birkaç etkileyici şiir var. Ama genelinde ben pek bir özellik, derinlik, çarpıcılık bulamadım.
Tabii bunlar benim tamamen amatör yorumlarım. Yoksa Glück Amerikan entelektüel çevrelerinde neredeyse yere göğe konulamayan bir şair konumunda. Zevk ya da kendi adıma idrak meselesi diyelim.
Read
December 6, 2022With this collection, Glück tackles the death of her father and her mother dealing with that fact, the fallout. She reflects on parenting styles, how one generation is doomed to repeat the woes of the previous generation. Will the chain be broken? She makes time to think about the passing of a sister she never met. Not a lot of chaff here, compared to her first few collections. More and more wheat.
My favourites from the collection were:
-Labor Day
-Widows
-Confession
-Lost Love
-A Fable
-Terminal Resemblance
-Lament
Here is Confession:
To say I’m without fear–
it wouldn’t be true.
I’m afraid of sickness, humiliation.
Like anyone, I have my dreams.
But I’ve learned to hide them,
to protect myself
from fulfillment: all happiness
attracts the Fates’ anger.
They are sisters, savages–
in the end, they have
no emotion but envy.
My favourites from the collection were:
-Labor Day
-Widows
-Confession
-Lost Love
-A Fable
-Terminal Resemblance
-Lament
Here is Confession:
To say I’m without fear–
it wouldn’t be true.
I’m afraid of sickness, humiliation.
Like anyone, I have my dreams.
But I’ve learned to hide them,
to protect myself
from fulfillment: all happiness
attracts the Fates’ anger.
They are sisters, savages–
in the end, they have
no emotion but envy.
October 12, 2020
First Memory
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.
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.
February 8, 2025
Me gusto mucho.
Hice una video reseña de el en:
https://www.instagram.com/p/DF0Tv8yO0tP/
Hice una video reseña de el en:
https://www.instagram.com/p/DF0Tv8yO0tP/
February 4, 2021
Wow så bra! Skoningslöst och rakt på.
Jag är ingen van poesiläsare. Jag tycker ofta poesi är obegripligt. Det är dock inte fallet med diktsamlingen Ararat. Här hänger dikterna samman. De handlar om familjen med mamma, pappa och syster, samt den egna sonen. Det är mörkt och bittert. Utlämnande. En gnutta ironi kan skönjas, vilket lättar upp något. När jag just läst en text som på ett oerhört skickligt sätt har orden formade till rena magin, får jag svårt att formulera mig. Ni får läsa själva:
Brun cirkel
Min mor vill veta
varför jag, som hatar
familjer så mycket,
gick och skaffade
en. Jag svarar inte
min mor.
Det jag hatade
var att vara barn,
att inte kunna välja
vilka jag skulle älska.
Jag älskar inte min son
så som jag tänkte älska honom.
Jag tänkte jag skulle vara
en orkidéälskare som
finner purpurtreblad växa
i granens skugga, utan att
röra det, utan att behöva
äga det. Jag är som
vetenskapsmannen
som kommer till den blomman
med ett förstoringsglas
och inte ger sig av, fast
solen bränner en brun
cirkel i gräset runt
blomman. Vilket mer
eller mindre är det sätt
min mor älskade mig.
Jag måste lära mig
att förlåta min mor,
nu när jag inte klarar av
att skona min son.
November 24, 2012
I simply don't know how to assign "stars" to a volume of poetry. I read this book almost straight through, with a pounding heart. Gluck is personal, devastating, terse and focused. From "Terminal Resemblance," about the last time she saw her dying father:
"When the taxi came, my parents watched from the front door,
arm in arm, my mother blowing kisses as she always does,
because it frightens her when a hand isn't being used.
But for a change, my father didn't just stand there.
This time, he waved.
That's what I did, at the door to the taxi.
Like him, waved to disguise my hand's trembling."
My first Louise Gluck but not my last.
"When the taxi came, my parents watched from the front door,
arm in arm, my mother blowing kisses as she always does,
because it frightens her when a hand isn't being used.
But for a change, my father didn't just stand there.
This time, he waved.
That's what I did, at the door to the taxi.
Like him, waved to disguise my hand's trembling."
My first Louise Gluck but not my last.
December 25, 2016
She knows
it isn’t possible. But it’s her only hope,
the wish to move backward.
*
Don’t listen to me; my heart’s been broken.
I don’t see anything objectively.
[…]
Because a wound to the heart
is also a wound to the mind.
*
You should only hurt
something you can give
your whole heart to.
*
The soul is silent.
If it speaks at all
it speaks in dreams.
*
That’s how language dies, because it doesn’t need to be spoken.
it isn’t possible. But it’s her only hope,
the wish to move backward.
*
Don’t listen to me; my heart’s been broken.
I don’t see anything objectively.
[…]
Because a wound to the heart
is also a wound to the mind.
*
You should only hurt
something you can give
your whole heart to.
*
The soul is silent.
If it speaks at all
it speaks in dreams.
*
That’s how language dies, because it doesn’t need to be spoken.
April 23, 2023
*4.75
Íntimo, insondable.
Me fascinó.
Íntimo, insondable.
Me fascinó.
November 8, 2023
Beautiful, very moving, and sad. Lots of wonderful reflections on the complicated life of a family.
October 25, 2020
My first book of poems by the recently created Nobel Laureate, Louise Glück. This was the only book of her poems available in the university library and was first published in 1990.
There are 32 poems and they all revolve around family relationships, the poet’s relations with her mother, newly widowed, father now lost and sister growing up. The tension between siblings, their differences and their struggles between each other and their parents are very well captured.
The first poem 'Parodos' actually sets the scene perfectly for the whole collection, although as you start reading, you are not yet sure of the direction. Just listen:
Long ago, I was wounded
I learned
to exist, in reaction,
out of touch
with the world: I’ll tell you
what I meant to be –
a device that listened.
Not inert: still.
A piece of wood. A stone.
Why should I tire myself, debating, arguing?
Those people breathing in the other beds
could hardly follow, being
uncontrollable
like any dream –
Through the blinds, I watched
the moon in the night sky, shrinking and swelling –
I was born to a vocation:
to bear witness
to the great mysteries.
Now that I’ve seen both
birth and death, I know
to the dark nature these
are proofs, not
mysteries –
I looked very closely at these three verses. 105 words in all, the first verse nine lines and 38 words, the second seven lines and 36 words and the third verse eight lines and 31 words. The use of the Em dash is interesting – it starts in the first verse after ‘what I meant to be’ and does not close until the end of last line of the poem. Within that structure, there are two other lines within their own Em dash, at the end of the second verse.
I particularly like the line in the first verse “Not inert: still.” Very sparse writing, but so full at the same time. In the second verse I love the way she marks the passing of time with the phrase about the moon shrinking and swelling. The last verse refers to events in the poems that follow – the death of her father and the birth of her son.
Glück has an amazing ability to surprise. To turn things around into unexpected phrases such as these:
Everyday, in funeral homes, new widows are born,
new orphans.”
“Then they’re in the cemetery, some of them
for the first time. They’re frightened of crying,
sometimes of not crying.”
The someone will help them out with what they should do next, be it saying a few words or throwing dirt into the open grave. Confusion over protocol. The stiffness of the widow, back at home on the couch. People coming to express regrets or give hugs. All the actions and emotions are stunted. The poem catches the mood so well. The widow wants to go back in time, to the hospital, but not as far back as the marriage or the first kiss. We are reminded of her memories.
On the loss of a baby sister:
Something did change: when my sister died,
my mother’s heart became
very cold, very rigid,
like a tiny pendant of iron.
The long poem ‘Appearances’ talks about two paintings over the mantel shelf, the two sisters, one blonde one dark, one quiet one loud. Glück recalls the painting of these portraits and how her mother tried to love the two sister equally. And then these killer lines:
It was something I was good at: sitting still not moving
I did it to be goof, to please my mother, to distract her from
the child that died.
I wanted to be child enough. I’m still the same,
like a toy that can stop and go, but not change direction.
In a short poem called ‘A Fable’ Glück recalls the story of Solomon, asked to decide between two women and a baby, both claiming to be the mother, he draws his sword to cut the child in half. She turns this around to a child’s point of view:
Who was the rightful child,
The one who couldn’t bear
To divide the mother.
Some of the poems are so full of sadness. I’ll leave you with the thirteen lines of Mirror Image:
Tonight I saw myself in the dark window as
the image of my father, whose life
was spent like this,
thinking of death, to the exclusion
of other sensual matters,
so in the end that life
was easy to give up, since
it contained nothing: even
my mother’s voice couldn’t make him
change or turn back
as he believed
that once you cannot love another human being
you have no place in the world.
Wow, so very, very powerful. So much raw emotion pushing out of those brief lines. This is the first book of poems by Glück but it certainly won’t be the last.
There are 32 poems and they all revolve around family relationships, the poet’s relations with her mother, newly widowed, father now lost and sister growing up. The tension between siblings, their differences and their struggles between each other and their parents are very well captured.
The first poem 'Parodos' actually sets the scene perfectly for the whole collection, although as you start reading, you are not yet sure of the direction. Just listen:
Long ago, I was wounded
I learned
to exist, in reaction,
out of touch
with the world: I’ll tell you
what I meant to be –
a device that listened.
Not inert: still.
A piece of wood. A stone.
Why should I tire myself, debating, arguing?
Those people breathing in the other beds
could hardly follow, being
uncontrollable
like any dream –
Through the blinds, I watched
the moon in the night sky, shrinking and swelling –
I was born to a vocation:
to bear witness
to the great mysteries.
Now that I’ve seen both
birth and death, I know
to the dark nature these
are proofs, not
mysteries –
I looked very closely at these three verses. 105 words in all, the first verse nine lines and 38 words, the second seven lines and 36 words and the third verse eight lines and 31 words. The use of the Em dash is interesting – it starts in the first verse after ‘what I meant to be’ and does not close until the end of last line of the poem. Within that structure, there are two other lines within their own Em dash, at the end of the second verse.
I particularly like the line in the first verse “Not inert: still.” Very sparse writing, but so full at the same time. In the second verse I love the way she marks the passing of time with the phrase about the moon shrinking and swelling. The last verse refers to events in the poems that follow – the death of her father and the birth of her son.
Glück has an amazing ability to surprise. To turn things around into unexpected phrases such as these:
Everyday, in funeral homes, new widows are born,
new orphans.”
“Then they’re in the cemetery, some of them
for the first time. They’re frightened of crying,
sometimes of not crying.”
The someone will help them out with what they should do next, be it saying a few words or throwing dirt into the open grave. Confusion over protocol. The stiffness of the widow, back at home on the couch. People coming to express regrets or give hugs. All the actions and emotions are stunted. The poem catches the mood so well. The widow wants to go back in time, to the hospital, but not as far back as the marriage or the first kiss. We are reminded of her memories.
On the loss of a baby sister:
Something did change: when my sister died,
my mother’s heart became
very cold, very rigid,
like a tiny pendant of iron.
The long poem ‘Appearances’ talks about two paintings over the mantel shelf, the two sisters, one blonde one dark, one quiet one loud. Glück recalls the painting of these portraits and how her mother tried to love the two sister equally. And then these killer lines:
It was something I was good at: sitting still not moving
I did it to be goof, to please my mother, to distract her from
the child that died.
I wanted to be child enough. I’m still the same,
like a toy that can stop and go, but not change direction.
In a short poem called ‘A Fable’ Glück recalls the story of Solomon, asked to decide between two women and a baby, both claiming to be the mother, he draws his sword to cut the child in half. She turns this around to a child’s point of view:
Who was the rightful child,
The one who couldn’t bear
To divide the mother.
Some of the poems are so full of sadness. I’ll leave you with the thirteen lines of Mirror Image:
Tonight I saw myself in the dark window as
the image of my father, whose life
was spent like this,
thinking of death, to the exclusion
of other sensual matters,
so in the end that life
was easy to give up, since
it contained nothing: even
my mother’s voice couldn’t make him
change or turn back
as he believed
that once you cannot love another human being
you have no place in the world.
Wow, so very, very powerful. So much raw emotion pushing out of those brief lines. This is the first book of poems by Glück but it certainly won’t be the last.
December 30, 2020
Det är lika bra att erkänna: när Nobelpriset i litteratur tillkännagavs hade jag ingen aning om vem Louise Gluck var och hade hon inte vunnit skulle jag troligen aldrig läst Ararat.
Jag läser liksom inte lyrik. Lyrik brukar inte göra någonting med mig. Antingen är det för obegripligt eller så är det ingenting. Tydligen ska Ararat vara en av Glucks mest personliga diktsamlingar. Den handlar om liv och död, relationer mellan syskon, det egna barnet, föräldrarna.
Jag tycker om Ararat. Den är inte obegriplig. Jag känner mig inte som en idiot.
Vad som också tilltalar mig är att den är sammanhängande, med återkommande karaktärer, som en extremt komprimerad roman och enligt efterordet av översättaren har Gluck själv tröttnat lite på dikt som samling, och vill skriva hela böcker, med sammanhållet tema eller problematik.
Nu tänker jag också att lyrik är precis som all annan litteratur (och Game of Thrones): är det riktigt bra är det också bättre när man läser den igen.
Jag läser liksom inte lyrik. Lyrik brukar inte göra någonting med mig. Antingen är det för obegripligt eller så är det ingenting. Tydligen ska Ararat vara en av Glucks mest personliga diktsamlingar. Den handlar om liv och död, relationer mellan syskon, det egna barnet, föräldrarna.
Jag tycker om Ararat. Den är inte obegriplig. Jag känner mig inte som en idiot.
Vad som också tilltalar mig är att den är sammanhängande, med återkommande karaktärer, som en extremt komprimerad roman och enligt efterordet av översättaren har Gluck själv tröttnat lite på dikt som samling, och vill skriva hela böcker, med sammanhållet tema eller problematik.
Nu tänker jag också att lyrik är precis som all annan litteratur (och Game of Thrones): är det riktigt bra är det också bättre när man läser den igen.
January 9, 2025
So beautifully sad and moving. These poems are about familial ties, grief, childhood, adulthood, parenthood. Raw and painfully real.
This edition, set to be published April 2025, has an eye-catching cover—hope Goodreads will update it soon. I will be buying a physical copy upon publication!
Thank you to NetGalley and Farrar, Strauss, and Giroux for the ARC.
This edition, set to be published April 2025, has an eye-catching cover—hope Goodreads will update it soon. I will be buying a physical copy upon publication!
Thank you to NetGalley and Farrar, Strauss, and Giroux for the ARC.
November 28, 2020
4,5! Denna var mörkare, men tyckte bättre om den än Averno.
May 31, 2021
writing book reviews to escape KI #2.
firstly, i want to say that i read a copy of this book signed by Ms Glück herself, courtesy of Dr He, which is very cool.
secondly, my friend Amanda said that Louise Glück's language is simple but her concepts are ~profound~, and i agree.
the poem "Brown Circle" is a personal favourite:
My mother wants to know
why, if I hate
family so much,
I went ahead and
had one. I don’t
answer my mother.
What I hated
was being a child,
having no choice about
what people I loved.
I don’t love my son
the way I meant to love him.
I thought I’d be
the lover of orchids who finds
red trillium growing
in the pine shade, and doesn’t
touch it, doesn’t need
to possess it. What I am
is the scientist,
who comes to that flower
with a magnifying glass
and doesn’t leave, though
the sun burns a brown
circle of grass around
the flower. Which is
more or less the way
my mother loved me.
I must learn
to forgive my mother,
now that I am helpless
to spare my son.
our parents have a big impact on us, which sounds obvious but is very true. i liked how the "brown circle" links to the cyclical way the speaker, just like her mother, ends up hurting her child... generational trauma. and not just hurting her child, but leaving a noticeable mark which cannot easily be healed - the grass is burnt, her son can no longer be spared. even the forgiveness at the end is somewhat bittersweet: the speaker only begins to empathise with her mother because she too has made a mistake. this poem makes me want to be a good parent in the future 👍👍
in other poems, she creates some simple but powerful metaphors: women "born again" into new lives as widows; the body of a mother's dead child a magnet that pulls her towards the earth.
thirdly, this book has a narrative. as you can tell, there are a lot of poems about family and death. the same speaker and characters (mother, father, sister, kids) appear throughout, and the result is that you get a rich and heartfelt portrait of a family dealing with grief, going through life etc. it might be autobiographical. the first and last poem parallel each other as well; i really liked them both. here is the last poem in the book, "First Memory":
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.
all in all: highly recommend! it's very short and fast to read aka high value for time LOL. can borrow from Dr He
firstly, i want to say that i read a copy of this book signed by Ms Glück herself, courtesy of Dr He, which is very cool.
secondly, my friend Amanda said that Louise Glück's language is simple but her concepts are ~profound~, and i agree.
the poem "Brown Circle" is a personal favourite:
My mother wants to know
why, if I hate
family so much,
I went ahead and
had one. I don’t
answer my mother.
What I hated
was being a child,
having no choice about
what people I loved.
I don’t love my son
the way I meant to love him.
I thought I’d be
the lover of orchids who finds
red trillium growing
in the pine shade, and doesn’t
touch it, doesn’t need
to possess it. What I am
is the scientist,
who comes to that flower
with a magnifying glass
and doesn’t leave, though
the sun burns a brown
circle of grass around
the flower. Which is
more or less the way
my mother loved me.
I must learn
to forgive my mother,
now that I am helpless
to spare my son.
our parents have a big impact on us, which sounds obvious but is very true. i liked how the "brown circle" links to the cyclical way the speaker, just like her mother, ends up hurting her child... generational trauma. and not just hurting her child, but leaving a noticeable mark which cannot easily be healed - the grass is burnt, her son can no longer be spared. even the forgiveness at the end is somewhat bittersweet: the speaker only begins to empathise with her mother because she too has made a mistake. this poem makes me want to be a good parent in the future 👍👍
in other poems, she creates some simple but powerful metaphors: women "born again" into new lives as widows; the body of a mother's dead child a magnet that pulls her towards the earth.
thirdly, this book has a narrative. as you can tell, there are a lot of poems about family and death. the same speaker and characters (mother, father, sister, kids) appear throughout, and the result is that you get a rich and heartfelt portrait of a family dealing with grief, going through life etc. it might be autobiographical. the first and last poem parallel each other as well; i really liked them both. here is the last poem in the book, "First Memory":
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.
all in all: highly recommend! it's very short and fast to read aka high value for time LOL. can borrow from Dr He
Read
August 21, 2024" Parodos
Molto tempo fa, sono stata ferita.
Imparai
a esistere, come reazione,
fuori dal contatto
con il mondo: vi dirò
cosa volevo essere –
un congegno fatto per ascoltare.
Non inerte: immobile.
Un pezzo di legno. Una pietra.
Perché dovrei stancarmi a discutere, replicare?
Quelli che respiravano negli altri letti
non erano certo in grado di seguirmi, essendo
incontrollabili
come lo sono i sogni –
Attraverso le veneziane, osservavo
la luna nel cielo notturno restringersi e gonfiarsi –
Ero nata con una vocazione:
testimoniare
i grandi misteri.
Ora che ho visto
e nascita e morte, so
che per la buia natura esse
sono prove, non
misteri – "
-----
" Primo ricordo
Molto tempo fa sono stata ferita. Sono vissuta
per vendicarmi
contro mio padre, non
per quel che era –
per quel che ero io: fin dai primi tempi,
da bambina, pensavo
che il dolore volesse dire
che non ero amata.
Voleva dire che amavo".
-----
" Confessione
Dire che sono senza paura –
non sarebbe vero.
Ho paura della malattia, dell'umiliazione.
Come chiunque altro, ho i miei sogni.
Ma ho imparato a nasconderli,
a proteggermi
dal compimento: ogni felicità
attira la collera delle Parche.
Sono sorelle, selvagge –
e alla fin fine la loro unica
emozione è l'invidia."
-----
" Parlante inaffidabile
Non ascoltarmi; mi si è spezzato il cuore.
Non vedo obiettivamente le cose.
Mi conosco; ho imparato ad ascoltare come fossi uno psichiatra.
Quando parlo appassionatamente,
allora meno che mai mi si può credere.
E' triste, lo so: è tutta la vita che mi lodano
per la mia intelligenza, le mie capacità linguistiche, intuitive.
Ma alla fin fine sono sprecate –
Non mi vedo mai,
in piedi sui gradini di casa, mentre tengo per mano mia sorella.
Ecco perché non so spiegare
i lividi sul suo braccio, dove finiscono le maniche.
Quanto a me, mi sento invisibile: perciò sono pericolosa.
Gente come me, che sembra generosa,
è menomata, è bugiarda;
siamo quelli da rispedire al mittente
per amore della verità.
Quando sto in silenzio, è allora che la verità emerge.
Un cielo chiaro, le nuvole come fili bianchi.
Sotto, una casetta grigia, le azalee
rosse e rosa acceso.
Se vuoi sapere la verità, devi dimenticare
la figlia maggiore, devi cancellarla:
quando a una creatura vivente si fa tanto male,
nei suoi meccanismi profondi,
ogni funzione è alterata.
Ecco perché non devi credermi.
Perché una ferita al cuore
è anche una ferita alla mente".
-----
Molto tempo fa, sono stata ferita.
Imparai
a esistere, come reazione,
fuori dal contatto
con il mondo: vi dirò
cosa volevo essere –
un congegno fatto per ascoltare.
Non inerte: immobile.
Un pezzo di legno. Una pietra.
Perché dovrei stancarmi a discutere, replicare?
Quelli che respiravano negli altri letti
non erano certo in grado di seguirmi, essendo
incontrollabili
come lo sono i sogni –
Attraverso le veneziane, osservavo
la luna nel cielo notturno restringersi e gonfiarsi –
Ero nata con una vocazione:
testimoniare
i grandi misteri.
Ora che ho visto
e nascita e morte, so
che per la buia natura esse
sono prove, non
misteri – "
-----
" Primo ricordo
Molto tempo fa sono stata ferita. Sono vissuta
per vendicarmi
contro mio padre, non
per quel che era –
per quel che ero io: fin dai primi tempi,
da bambina, pensavo
che il dolore volesse dire
che non ero amata.
Voleva dire che amavo".
-----
" Confessione
Dire che sono senza paura –
non sarebbe vero.
Ho paura della malattia, dell'umiliazione.
Come chiunque altro, ho i miei sogni.
Ma ho imparato a nasconderli,
a proteggermi
dal compimento: ogni felicità
attira la collera delle Parche.
Sono sorelle, selvagge –
e alla fin fine la loro unica
emozione è l'invidia."
-----
" Parlante inaffidabile
Non ascoltarmi; mi si è spezzato il cuore.
Non vedo obiettivamente le cose.
Mi conosco; ho imparato ad ascoltare come fossi uno psichiatra.
Quando parlo appassionatamente,
allora meno che mai mi si può credere.
E' triste, lo so: è tutta la vita che mi lodano
per la mia intelligenza, le mie capacità linguistiche, intuitive.
Ma alla fin fine sono sprecate –
Non mi vedo mai,
in piedi sui gradini di casa, mentre tengo per mano mia sorella.
Ecco perché non so spiegare
i lividi sul suo braccio, dove finiscono le maniche.
Quanto a me, mi sento invisibile: perciò sono pericolosa.
Gente come me, che sembra generosa,
è menomata, è bugiarda;
siamo quelli da rispedire al mittente
per amore della verità.
Quando sto in silenzio, è allora che la verità emerge.
Un cielo chiaro, le nuvole come fili bianchi.
Sotto, una casetta grigia, le azalee
rosse e rosa acceso.
Se vuoi sapere la verità, devi dimenticare
la figlia maggiore, devi cancellarla:
quando a una creatura vivente si fa tanto male,
nei suoi meccanismi profondi,
ogni funzione è alterata.
Ecco perché non devi credermi.
Perché una ferita al cuore
è anche una ferita alla mente".
-----
November 8, 2023
When Louise Glück won the Nobel prize for literature in 2020, her work wasn't all that available. Now, three years later, and just after her death, it is. My library has lots. But the collection I decided to read was to be asked for at the main library's desk. That means it wasn't being read very often and was kept there instead of on the regular shelf. I know because I asked before, about another book.
I decided to read Ararat. At first I was thinking of The Wild Iris. It had won the Pulitzer for Poetry and perhaps was more popular. But Ararat is supposed to be dark. I was in the mood for dark. Or, maybe, dark would fit where I am.
Ararat followed her father's death. I read that she's an autobiographical poet, and Ararat certainly seemed to be.
I read that Louise Glück's poetry can change a lot from one or more collections to the next, so the one I read may not be typical at all. Yet I also saw reference to her "unmistakable poetic voice," so even if there is change, there may also be a lot of carry-over between books.
Louise Glück is Jewish by ethnicity but has not wanted to be a Jewish poet (or a nature poet, or a poet of childhood, although those are her frequent themes). So I wanted to see what I thought about that. I saw some of her other books (maybe it was The Wild Iris) incorporated some Christian terms (reference to Christmas; vespers), but nothing of the sort jumped out at me in Ararat.
The first time I read through Ararat, I noted two poems in which she seemed angry with the tradition she was born into.
The first reads:
Well, so you see.
but certainly we don't have to argue over a Jewish God. Surely there's just one, no matter how we argue over attributes and aspects.
Then there's one toward the end, "Lament," that begins:
☺️
Well, as far as critical of Judaism, I was picking up on that "shut in with orthodoxy," which could be a reference to the Jewish ceremony of shiva, but, really, on the now third reading, that poem reeks of gratitude. Despite the darkness.
Here's a dark one from nearer the beginning:
And here's the last one in the collection:
The poetry is filled with biblical and religious allusions, from the title, Ararat, which refers to the mountain where Noah's ark settled after the flood, to titles of other poems (e.g. "Paradise," "Celestial Muses") to exodus, saints, and souls. The allusions are the sort that religiously literate people have and don't reflect a particularly deep Jewish religious education.
She's certainly wrestling with God, though. I think people don't just throw off the heritage with which they were imbued, even if they don't consider themselves traditionally religious.
It's possible to read through this collection several times because it's all of 68 pages. I find it very accessible.
Another reason I wanted to read it, other than just because she won the Nobel and because she recently died -- and because it's dark -- is that a poem can be like a prayer, and, these days, that I can use.
I decided to read Ararat. At first I was thinking of The Wild Iris. It had won the Pulitzer for Poetry and perhaps was more popular. But Ararat is supposed to be dark. I was in the mood for dark. Or, maybe, dark would fit where I am.
Ararat followed her father's death. I read that she's an autobiographical poet, and Ararat certainly seemed to be.
I read that Louise Glück's poetry can change a lot from one or more collections to the next, so the one I read may not be typical at all. Yet I also saw reference to her "unmistakable poetic voice," so even if there is change, there may also be a lot of carry-over between books.
Louise Glück is Jewish by ethnicity but has not wanted to be a Jewish poet (or a nature poet, or a poet of childhood, although those are her frequent themes). So I wanted to see what I thought about that. I saw some of her other books (maybe it was The Wild Iris) incorporated some Christian terms (reference to Christmas; vespers), but nothing of the sort jumped out at me in Ararat.
The first time I read through Ararat, I noted two poems in which she seemed angry with the tradition she was born into.
The first reads:
Source : https://www.amazon.fr/Ararat-Louise-G...
Mount Ararat
Nothing’s sadder than my sister’s grave
unless it’s the grave of my cousin, next to her.
To this day, I can’t bring myself to watch
my aunt and my mother,
though the more I try to escape
seeing their suffering, the more it seems
the fate of our family:
each branch donates one girl child to the earth.
In my generation, we put off marrying, put off having children.
When we did have them, we each had one;
for the most part, we had sons, not daughters.
We don’t discuss this ever.
But it’s always a relief to bury an adult,
someone remote, like my father.
It’s a sign that maybe the debt’s finally been paid.
In fact, no one believes this.
Like the earth itself, every stone here
is dedicated to the Jewish god
who doesn’t hesitate to take
a son from a mother.
Well, so you see.
but certainly we don't have to argue over a Jewish God. Surely there's just one, no matter how we argue over attributes and aspects.
Then there's one toward the end, "Lament," that begins:
Suddenly, after you die, those friends
who never agreed about anything
agree about your character.
They're like a houseful of singers rehearsing
the same score:
you were just, you were kind, you lived a fortunate life.
No harmony, no counterpoint. Except
they're not performers;
real tears are shed.
Luckily, you're dead; otherwise
you'd be overcome with revulsion.
But when that's passed,
when the guests begin filing out, wiping their eyes
because, after a day like this,
shut in with orthodoxy,
the sun's amazingly bright,
though it's late afternoon, September--
when the exodus begins,
that's when you'd feel
pangs of envy.
Your friends the living embrace one another,
gossip a little on the sidewalk
as the sun sinks, and the evening breeze
ruffles the women's shawls--
this, this, is the meaning of
"a fortunate life": it means
to exist in the present.
☺️
Well, as far as critical of Judaism, I was picking up on that "shut in with orthodoxy," which could be a reference to the Jewish ceremony of shiva, but, really, on the now third reading, that poem reeks of gratitude. Despite the darkness.
Here's a dark one from nearer the beginning:
Labor Day
It’s a year exactly since my father died.
Last year was hot. At the funeral, people talked about the weather.
How hot it was for September. How unseasonable.
This year, it’s cold.
There’s just us now, the immediate family.
In the flower beds,
shreds of bronze, of copper.
Out front, my sister’s daughter rides her bicycle
the way she did last year,
up and down the sidewalk. What she wants is
to make time pass.
While to the rest of us
a whole lifetime is nothing.
One day, you’re a blond boy with a tooth missing;
the next, an old man gasping for air.
It comes to nothing, really, hardly
a moment on earth.
Not a sentence, but a breath, a caesura.
And here's the last one in the collection:
First Memory
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.
The poetry is filled with biblical and religious allusions, from the title, Ararat, which refers to the mountain where Noah's ark settled after the flood, to titles of other poems (e.g. "Paradise," "Celestial Muses") to exodus, saints, and souls. The allusions are the sort that religiously literate people have and don't reflect a particularly deep Jewish religious education.
She's certainly wrestling with God, though. I think people don't just throw off the heritage with which they were imbued, even if they don't consider themselves traditionally religious.
It's possible to read through this collection several times because it's all of 68 pages. I find it very accessible.
Another reason I wanted to read it, other than just because she won the Nobel and because she recently died -- and because it's dark -- is that a poem can be like a prayer, and, these days, that I can use.
March 7, 2022
«Long ago, I was wounded». Leo en la contra de Visor que un crítico dijo del lenguaje de 'Ararat' que se asemeja mucho al que utiliza alguien antes de ponerse a gritar. Creo que por esa vía resuelve aquí Glück los peligros de la poesía confesional: encuentra una suerte de borde en lo meramente descriptivo —la muerte también se describe, pragmática o biográficamente— para transitar sus rutinas familiares y sus vínculos con sus seres queridos, también el dolor que sigue a su ausencia. En apariencia, el libro es sencillísimo y está despojado de ornamentos, pero siempre siento que hay un equilibrio delicado y complejo detrás de las operaciones poéticas de Glück, de su manera de tejer sentido a lo largo de sus «narraciones líricas», de eludir el estallido girándose a contemplar las nubes. Me ha gustado mucho que aspire, aquí, a ser un puño cerrado. Y que ello no implique una clausura hacia el mundo y los demás, sino una posible reapertura.
May 30, 2025
What she wants is
to make time pass.
While to the rest of us
a whole lifetime is nothing.
One day, you’re a blond boy with a tooth missing;
the next, an old man gasping for air.
It comes to nothing, really, hardly
a moment on earth.
Not a sentence, but a breath, a caesura.
***
Like anyone, I have my dreams.
But I’ve learned to hide them,
to protect myself
from fulfillment: all happiness
attracts the Fates’ anger.
Beautiful, very personal collection of poems. Glück was able to paint such an uncomfortable family portrait in less than 70 pgs.
Thank you to NetGalley and the publisher for early access to this ebook, available April 15th, 2025.
to make time pass.
While to the rest of us
a whole lifetime is nothing.
One day, you’re a blond boy with a tooth missing;
the next, an old man gasping for air.
It comes to nothing, really, hardly
a moment on earth.
Not a sentence, but a breath, a caesura.
***
Like anyone, I have my dreams.
But I’ve learned to hide them,
to protect myself
from fulfillment: all happiness
attracts the Fates’ anger.
Beautiful, very personal collection of poems. Glück was able to paint such an uncomfortable family portrait in less than 70 pgs.
Thank you to NetGalley and the publisher for early access to this ebook, available April 15th, 2025.
April 24, 2022
The way this volume has my heart in a chokehold.... Yes, the myths are erased. It all boils down to family. The themes of living and dying that were present before come here at heightened levels because they're so personal, so real, and unveiled. There's no figurative language to cloak the plain truths, to make them somehow more digestible or poetic or curious to read in their ambiguity. It's just open, 'heart pouring on paper' poetry. I love how this volume unlocks new meanings to the previous ones. I find publishing something like this so brave when it could have literally stayed hidden in a journal. It's also encouraging for readers and writers alike :) to be more transparent and unashamed I guess. Ok I just have a lot of feelings currently and I can't wait to reread this after a while... I even cried at some of the poems.
Tbh I've been finding such a love for Louise at this point I can't imagine reading something from her that I won't like.
Tbh I've been finding such a love for Louise at this point I can't imagine reading something from her that I won't like.
September 18, 2022
"No amo a mi hijo
del modo que pensé que le amaría.
Pensé que yo sería
el amante de orquídeas que descubre
trillium rojo creciendo
a la sombra de un pino
y no lo toca, no necesita
poseerlo. Pero soy
el científico
que se acerca a esa flor
con una lupa
y no la deja,
aunque el sol dibuje un círculo
quemado en torno
de la flor. De esta forma,
más o menos,
me quería mi madre.
Debo aprender
a perdonarla,
puesto que soy incapaz
de perdonar la vida de mi hijo."
del modo que pensé que le amaría.
Pensé que yo sería
el amante de orquídeas que descubre
trillium rojo creciendo
a la sombra de un pino
y no lo toca, no necesita
poseerlo. Pero soy
el científico
que se acerca a esa flor
con una lupa
y no la deja,
aunque el sol dibuje un círculo
quemado en torno
de la flor. De esta forma,
más o menos,
me quería mi madre.
Debo aprender
a perdonarla,
puesto que soy incapaz
de perdonar la vida de mi hijo."
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