Louise Elizabeth Glick
louise elisabeth glück
April 22, 1943 – October 13, 2023
American poet and essayist, born in New York, went on to attend Sarah Lawrence College and Columbia University without a degree. He was the Frederick Isserman Professor of Poetry Practice at Yale University and the English Professor of Creative Writing at Stanford University. He has won the 2020 Nobel Prize in Literature, the National Medal of the Humanities, the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry, the National Book Award, the National Book Critics Association Award, the Wallace Stevens Award of the Society of American Poets, the Bollingen Prize, the Aiken Taylor Prize for Modern American Poetry, and the 2003-2004 American Poet Laureate. Glick is generally regarded as an autobiographical poet, and his works are known for his strong feelings, such as the poetry collections The Triumph of Achilles (1985) and The Wild Irises (1993). Wild iris
At the end of my misery.
There is a door. Hear me out: the one whom you call death.
I still remember. Overhead, there was a noise, and the branches of the pine trees swayed.
And then nothing. Faint sunlight.
Swaying on dry ground.
When perceived. Buried in the dark dirt, surviving is also terrifying.
Then it came to an abrupt end: what you feared, did.
A soul cannot.
The speech, abruptly ended, stiff earth.
Slightly curved. The one I thought was a bird rushed into the bushes.
You don't remember it now.
The trek from another world, I tell you that I can speak again: everything.
Those who return from oblivion, return.
Go discover a voice:
From the very heart of my life, welled up.
Huge fountain, azure blue.
Projected on the azure waters.
White lily
Just like a man and a woman.
Make a garden between two people, like.
A bed of stars, here.
They were nostalgic for the summer night.
And the night is getting colder, with their fear: it.
Probably to end everything, it has the ability.
Destroy. Everything, everything.
can all be lost, in the aroma.
Elongated cylinders.
It was rising abruptly, and in the distance, a sea of poppies churned by huge waves
Shhhh I don't care.
How many summers can I go back to alive:
This summer we have entered eternity.
I feel your hands.
Bury me and unleash its splendor.
Castile
Orange blossoms* dance in the wind over Castile.
Children are begging for coins.
I once met someone I loved, under an orange tree.
Could it be that the acacia tree?
Isn't he someone I love?
I've read these and dreamed about them:
If you're awake now, can you bring back what happened to me?
The bells of the island of São Miguel.
Echoes in the distance.
His hair was golden and pale in the shadows.
If I ever dreamed about this, does that mean it didn't happen?
Does it have to happen in this world to be real?
I used to dream about everything, this story.
It's my story:
He was lying next to me, and my hand caressed the skin of his shoulder.
Noon, then late afternoon:
In the distance, the sound of a train.
But that's not the world
In this world, something happens eventually, absolutely, and the mind cannot turn it around.
Castill: The nuns walked through the dark garden in twos and twos.
Outside the walls of the Church of Sant'Angelo.
Children are begging for coins.
If I wake up and I'm still crying, isn't that real?
I once met someone I loved, under an orange tree.
I've forgotten.
It's just these facts, not that inference-
Somewhere, there are children shouting, begging for coins.
I have dreamed of everything, I have been obsessed.
Completely, forever.
And that train took us back.
First to Madrid.
Then to the Basque countryside.
Orange-blossom: Usually white, it is often used as a bridal bouquet and headdress in European weddings, symbolizing innocence and eternal love.
The Allegory of Loyalty
At this moment, in the light of day, on the steps of the palace.
The king begged the queen for forgiveness.
He's not. Duplicity; He did his best.
Just be honest; Is there another way?
Are you honest with yourself?
Queen. Cover your face, sort of.
She is supported by shadows. She cried.
for her past; When there is a secret in a person's life, the tears of that person can never be explained.
But the king was still happy to take it.
The Queen's Grief: His.
A big heart, in pain as in joy.
DID YOU KNOW. What does forgiveness mean? It means:
The world is already sinful, this world.
must be forgiven-
Balcony
It was like tonight night, in late summer.
We rented, I remember, a room with a balcony.
How many days and nights? Five, perhaps—not more.
Even when we're not stroking, it's a**.
We stood on our little balcony on a summer night.
Somewhere in the distance, the sound of human life.
We will soon be crowned kings and loved by our subjects. Just below us, the sound of the radio**, an aria that we were not familiar with in those years.
Some people are dying of love. Some people have been swept away by time.
The only happiness is now lonely, with nothing, and beauty is no more.
The notes of ecstasy, of unbearable sadness, of loneliness and fear, the slowly rising notes that are almost impossible to maintain
They float like a mesmerizer on the dark waters.
Such a small mistake. Many years later, that night, a few hours in that room, the only thing remained.
The world of the senses
Across a terrible river or crevasse, I cry out to you.
Warn you and prepare you.
The world will seduce you, slowly, unconsciously, subtly, not to mention acquiesce.
I wasn't ready then; I stood in my grandmother's kitchen and brought out my glass. Stewed plums, stewed apricots-
Pour the juice into a glass with ice.
Add more water, patiently, little by little, each time.
Many cousins and cousins will judge, taste-
Aromatic aroma of summer fruits, extremely concentrated:
The colored liquid gradually became brighter, more brilliant, and more light came through.
Happy, comforting. Grandma waited and wanted to see if she needed more. Comforting, deeply immersed.
My favorite: the deep secrets of sensual life, in which the self disappears, or cannot be distinguished, inexplicably set aside, floats, its needs.
Fully exposed, awakened, full of life-
deep immersion, and what comes with it.
Mysterious security. In the distance, the fruit glows in a glass dish.
Outside the kitchen, the sun sets.
I didn't prepare then: the sunset, the end of summer. Show.
Time is a continuum, something is coming to an end, not being put on hold; Feelings don't protect me either.
I warn you, because no one has ever warned me :
You will never let go, you will never be satisfied.
You will be wounded, you will be scarred, and you will continue to be hungry.
Your body will age and you will continue to need.
You'll want this world, and you'll want more out of this world
Solemn, indifferent, it arrives, but does not respond.
It surrounds, it doesn't shine.
Meaning, it will feed you, it will fascinate you, but it won't guarantee you alive.
Customary law
How we fell in love is curious:
To say my situation, completely fall into. Thoroughly, and, alas, often—
I was like that when I was younger.
And always with quite boyish men-
Immature, melancholy, or shyly kicking dead leaves:
Balanchine's style.
I don't see how they are the same guy.
And I, with stubborn Platonism, my paranoia made me see only one guy at a time:
And negate any guy.
But still, those mistakes of my youth.
I have no hope because they come back and forth, and habits become natural.
But in you, I feel something beyond the prototype-
A real boldness, a cheerfulness, a love for the world, completely contrary to my temperament. To my credit, I wish you good luck.
I pray thoroughly in the style that I have been consistent in those years.
And you, with your wisdom and cruelty.
Step by step, I was taught that the word was meaningless.
Unwritten law: also translated as unwritten law, as opposed to written law, refers to law that is based on custom and has acquired legal status.
George Balanchine (1904-1983) was a Russian-American ballet director and choreographer.
Cheese
World. It used to be complete because.
It is broken. When it's broken, we know what it is.
It never ** itself.
But in the deep cracks, smaller worlds emerge:
It's a good thing that humans created them;
Humans know what they need, better than God.
On Huron Avenue, they become.
a shop; They become.
Fishmongers", "Cheese". Irrespective of.
What they are or what they sell, they.
The role is the same: they.
It's an illusion of safety. Resemble.
A place of stillness. Those clerks.
Like parents; They seem.
Live there. On the whole, he is kinder than his parents.
Many tributaries. Flowing into a big river: I have.
Many lives. In this temporary world, I stand where the fruit is, boxes of cherries and citrus, under the bouquets of "Hayley Flower Shop".
I have many lives. Inject.
A river, a river.
Inject into the sea. If the ego.
When it becomes invisible, it disappears?
I grow. I'm alive.
Not exactly lonely, lonely.
But not quite, stranger.
surging around me.
This is what the sea is
We exist in secrecy.
I've had many lives before, a cluster of flowers.
Each has a flower stem: they become.
A thing, tied up from the middle by a ribbon, ribbon.
Manifest underneath the hand. On the top of the hand, there is a future of branches stretching, flower stems.
Stop at the flowers. And clenched fists-
It should be the self of the moment.
Debut song
Once upon a time, I was hurt.
I learned. Survival, as a coping, does not touch.
This world: I'm going to tell you.
What do I want to be——
A listening device.
Quiet: Not sluggish.
A piece of wood. A stone.
Why should I be tired of arguing and arguing?
Those who are breathing in other beds.
It's almost impossible to understand, because.
Like any dream.
Uncontrollable——
Through the blinds, I observe.
The moon is in the night sky, cloudy and sunny
I was born for a mission:
to witness. Those great secrets.
Now I've seen it.
Life and death, I know.
For the dark nature.
These are evidence, not secrets -
Parodos: A passage sung by the singing troupe in ancient Greek tragedy.
Children going to school
The children carried small school bags and kept going.
All morning, the mothers were toiling.
Picking late apples, red and yellow, like words in another language.
On the other side. It's the ones who wait behind the big desks.
Be prepared to receive these offerings.
How neat - those nails.
Children hung on it.
They have a blue or yellow woolen coat.
The teachers will teach them in silence, and the mothers will walk through the orchards, looking for a way out, attracted by themselves, the gray branches of the fruit trees.
Bear out so little ammo.
From a magazine
Once, I had a lover, twice, I had a lover, and easily, I loved three times.
In intervals. My heart repaired itself perfectly.
Like a small worm.
My dreams also fixed themselves.
Later, I realized that I was living.
A life of complete idiocy.
Idiotic, wasteful—
And then you, me and you.
Start communicating, invent one.
A new look.
Deep intimacy above the distance!
Keats and Fanny Braun, Dante and Beatrice-
It is impossible for one person to invent.
One that plays an old role.
New forms. Those letters I sent you keep.
Unflawed sarcasm, indifference.
But straightforward. At the same time, I'm in my head.
Writing different letters, some of which became poems.
So much of what it really feels like!
So much about passion and desire.
Warm declaration! I loved once, I loved twice.
And suddenly, that form collapsed: me.
Inability to remain ignorant.
How sad: to lose you, to lose.
Take you as a real person, as someone has made me.
Deeply attached to someone, perhaps.
It's a brother I've never had, to really understand, or to remember over time.
Anything possible. How sad: a thought.
Before nothing was discovered.
Die. Discover.
Most of the time we are so ignorant and look at things.
Only from that one point of view, like a sniper.
And there are so many things about myself, that I never told you, that might affect you.
The ** that I never sent, I took a picture.
I looked like it was a brilliant night.
I want you to fall in love. But that arrow.
Keep shooting in the mirror and back again.
And those letters have been cutting themselves apart, and every half of them is not completely true.
How sad: you never imagined.
these, though you always reply.
So swift and always equally elusive letter.
I loved once, I loved twice, even in our case.
Things never crossed that line:
It's a good thing to try.
I still have those letters, of course.
Sometimes it takes me years.
Reread them in the garden, accompanied by a cup of iced tea.
I feel that, sometimes, something is a part.
It's huge, it's so deep that it sweeps everything.
I loved once, I loved twice, easily, I loved three times.
Translated |Liu Xiangyang.