Gluck

Louise Gluck is another one of the poets I have not encountered before. I read Penelope’s Song and was pulled into what Gluck was saying. I felt drawn to the words in this poem. I envisioned someone who had a life with secrets tucked away and the narrator is finding out the truth. The use of the spruce tree, I thought was exceptional. I had not looked at a spruce the way she was describing but they do have shelf-like branches. I felt this was a descriptive way of telling the reader about the sentry or look-out. Does this person gather information? Is it in the best interest of the person to continue what they are doing?I think this person must think highly of themselves because she writes,You are not completely perfect either; with your troublesome body you have done things you shouldn’t discuss in poems. Wow, if it could not be discussed in poems, it must have been something regrettable or something no one should know about. So, I wonder what it was? There is passion with in this poem and the mention of demonic appetite makes me wonder in what direction this is going in. She uses the tree again at the end of her poem, ...you must shake the boughs of the tree to get his attention, and... but carefully, carefully, lest his beautiful face be marred by too many needles. I can not wait to discuss this one. It seems so full of possibilities. I found another poem I liked that Gluck had also written, The Fear of Burial , I found it very open with honest type feelings. I really like the way she wrote this. It is sort of sad how the spirit just sits beside the body. I sat for a minute after I read this and shut my eyes to see what she was saying. I noticed at the end she wrote about the heaviness of the door, milk, and bread. I was thinking of the sorrow the ones who were left behind were feeling. I really like her style.

The Fear of Burial

In the empty field, in the morning,
the body waits to be claimed.
The spirit sits beside it, on a small rock--
nothing comes to give it form again.

Think of the body's loneliness.
At night pacing the sheared field,
its shadow buckled tightly around.
Such a long journey.

And already the remote, trembling lights of the village
not pausing for it as they scan the rows.
How far away they seem,
the wooden doors, the bread and milk
laid like weights on the table.

from Descending Figure. © 1980 Louise Glück. Online Source