Our Nobel Laureate and My New Favorite Poem

 I was having computer issues yesterday, and then I had accreditation documents to craft at work, so I couldn't write about my great joy at the news that Louise Gluck has won the Nobel Prize in Literature.  I am always happy when a writer I know wins a big prize, and I'm even happier when it's a woman, and I'm even happier when it's a poet.

The Nobel Prize is the biggest literary honor, and a female poet from the U.S. won.  Hurrah!

Now let me confess that she's not my favorite poet, although I don't dislike her.  But if you asked me to choose my favorite Gluck poem, I wouldn't have one.  If we're being honest, I couldn't even name one.  I do remember reading volumes of her work that I checked out of the library, but I didn't love them enough to buy my own copy.

This morning, I'm reading through a variety of posts, primarily on Twitter, posts written by people offering their favorite poems by Louise Gluck.  Suddenly, I have found a lot of poems that are new to me, poems that I love instantly, poems that make me say, "Hello, and where have you been all my life?"

I was late to Mary Oliver in a similar way.  I had heard of her, read a bit here and there, but it wasn't until a group at church worked with her poems during Lent that I sat up and took notice.

I suspect the poetry of Louise Gluck is the same way:  versatile and universal, searing with insight.  I look forward to discovering her again for the first time (and yes, I mean that with all the glorious imprecision that exists in that sentence).

In the meantime, here's the poem that has bewitched me most this morning.

"Witchgrass" by Louise Glück

Something
comes into the world unwelcome
calling disorder, disorder—

If you hate me so much
don’t bother to give me
a name: do you need
one more slur
in your language, another
way to blame
one tribe for everything—

as we both know,
if you worship
one god, you only need
one enemy—

I’m not the enemy.
Only a ruse to ignore
what you see happening
right here in this bed,
a little paradigm
of failure. One of your precious flowers

dies here almost every day
and you can’t rest until
you attack the cause, meaning
whatever is left, whatever
happens to be sturdier
than your personal passion—

It was not meant
to last forever in the real world.
But why admit that, when you can go on
doing what you always do,
mourning and laying blame,
always the two together.

I don’t need your praise
to survive. I was here first,
before you were here, before
you ever planted a garden.
And I’ll be here when only the sun and moon
are left, and the sea, and the wide field.

I will constitute the field.