A Village Life
A Village existence, Louise Glück's 11th number of poems, starts off within the topography of a village, a Mediterranean international of no yes second or place:
All the roads within the village unite on the fountain.
Avenue of Liberty, street of the Acacia Trees—
The fountain rises on the heart of the plaza;
on sunny days, rainbows within the piss of the cherub.
Around the fountain are concentric circles of figures, prepared via age and in levels of distance: fields, a river, and, just like the fountain's contrary, a mountain. Human time superimposed on geologic time, all taken in at a look, with none undue sensation of velocity.
Glück has been often called a lyrical and dramatic poet; given that Ararat, she has formed her austere intensities into book-length sequences. right here, for the 1st time, she speaks as "the form of describing, supervising intelligence present in novels instead of poetry," as Langdon Hammer has written of her lengthy lines—expansive, fluent, and full—manifesting a peaceful omniscience. whereas Glück's demeanour is novelistic, she focuses no longer on motion yet on pauses and periods, moments of suspension (rather than suspense), in a dreamlike current stressful within which poetic hypothesis and mirrored image are attainable.
Burning lifeless leaves. They don’t disappear voluntarily; you need to prod them alongside because the farm employee prods the leaf pile each year until eventually it releases a odor of smoke into the air. after which, for an hour or so, it’s fairly lively, blazing away like whatever alive. whilst the smoke clears, the home is secure. A woman’s status within the again, folding dry outfits right into a willow basket. So it’s comprehensive for an additional yr, dying making room for all times, up to attainable, yet burning the.
They decide flora for his or her girlfriends— It makes the women satisfied. they believe it’s beautiful the following, yet they omit the town, the afternoons packed with buying and conversing, what you do when you've got no money … To my brain, you’re at an advantage in the event you remain; that manner, desires don’t harm you. At nightfall, you take a seat via the window. anywhere you reside, you will discover the fields, the river, realities on that you can't impose your self— To me, it’s secure. The sunlight rises; the mist dissipates to bare the.
gigantic mountain. you will find the height, how white it's, even in summer season. And the sky’s so blue, punctuated with small pines like spears— in the event you received bored with strolling you lay down within the grass. if you happen to obtained up back, you'll see for a second the place you’d been, the grass was once slick there, flattened out into the form of a physique. for those who regarded again later, it used to be as if you’d by no means been there in any respect. Midafternoon, midsummer. The fields move on eternally, peaceable, appealing. Like.
strikes the sheet apart. And less than it, there's her physique, nonetheless attractive and new with out marks anyplace. And it sort of feels to her nonetheless similar to her brain, so in keeping with it as to appear obvious, nearly, and once more she falls in love with it and vows to guard it. HARVEST It’s autumn out there— now not clever anymore to shop for tomatoes. They’re appealing nonetheless at the open air, a few completely around and crimson, the infrequent forms misshapen, person, like human brains coated in purple.
Oilcloth— inside of, they’re long past. Black, moldy— you can’t take a chew with out nervousness. right here and there, one of the tainted ones, a fruit nonetheless ideal, picked sooner than decay set in. rather than tomatoes, plants not anyone particularly desires. Pumpkins, loads of pumpkins. Gourds, ropes of dried chilies, braids of garlic. The artisans weave lifeless flora into wreaths; they tie bits of coloured yarn round dried lavender. and other people move on for your time purchasing this stuff as if they notion the farmers.