Monday, February 13, 2006

The extermes are easy.


More than you love me, very possibly
you love the beasts of the field, even,
possibly, the field itself, in August dotted
with wild chicory and aster:
I know. I have compared myself
to those flowers, their range of feeling
so much smaller and without issue; also to white sheep
actually gray: I am uniquely
suited to praise you. Then why
torment me? I study the hawkweed,
the buttercup protected from the grazing herd
by being poisonous: is pain
your gift to make me
conscious in my need of you, as though
I must need you to worship you,
or have you abandoned me
in favor of the field, the stoic lambs turning
silver in twilight; waves of wild aster and chicory shining
pale blue and deep blue, since you already know how
like your raiment it is.

Louise Glück


Melyngoch said...

you have marvelous taste in poetry.

also, please email me with your snailmail address.

E. Plicka said...

eg, this poem is great. Lance gave us a book of Glucks poetry when we got married, and it is wonderful. Your blog is great, I hope you don't mind me spying in now and then (from the link on Joe's). Had a good time visiting with you at the basketball game.


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