Later, I think, we no longer care, in “Thanksgiving” for instance, who are the prey and who the predators; we read the poem, instead, as a truth complete within its own terms, reflecting some one of the innumerable configurations into which experience falls. Terror? That's what he felt, the lord of darkness,looking at the world he hadconstructed for Persephone. Oversized glasses and a chunky wristwatch show off 1982-Literature Prize winner Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s larger-than-life persona; a dog-eared copy of The Portable Chekhov is Canadian writer Alice Munro’s gentle offering (2013); Svetlana Alexievich, the 2015 winner’s favourite dictaphone that recorded the stories that went into her Voices from Chernobyl (1997), finds a pride of place here. There is no prayer, no protest, no outcry, even: only the primal simplicity of the narrator. In poem after poem, Glück returns to these questions of identity and purpose, in particular that of a woman, constricted by gender roles and societal conventions about body image. The three recent lyrics included here—“Portland, 1968,” “Thanksgiving,” and “The Drowned Children”—are all allusive in Glück’s enigmatic manner, all hopeless, all staving off tears with finish and surface. Despite the bleakness at their core, Gluck’s poems are also imbued by a lyrical rhythm that lends symmetry to the austerity of her form. It is this removal which gives such mythological power, in The House on Marshland. As I write this, I have my copy of “Poems: 1962-2012” splayed out beside me on my writing table. The nails are waiting for the children, the mothers are trapped in the orchards. The fear of love?These things he couldn't imagine;no lover ever imagines them. But if there is no “thou,” the voice can make no leap to another ear, can scarcely conceive of itself as subject. We are made to remember, with her, the last moment, the floating scarf, surrealistically prolonged; and we bequeath them, with her, to the pond’s colder maternity. It’s Glück’s abundant intellect, and deep feeling, that keeps pulling you back to her poems. The conundrum of marriage is set for the unborn child, a conundrum she can never solve; the house is immobile in the constricting universe; and once again, nature, unbidden, sends forth those weak blooms vulnerable to the first frost, the first too-rough airs of heaven. Send me updates about Slate special offers. Or such is our first impulse. But the last act, against all reason, is the call, “come home, come home.”, is her own best critic. Louise Glück became the first American woman to win a Nobel Prize in literature since Toni Morrison in 1993. A powerful re-seeing of family life animates many of the poems in The House on Marshland. Guilt? Slate is published by The Slate Group, a Graham Holdings Company. The American poet Louise Glück, who was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature on Thursday. Glück’s is post-Freudian poetry; its wide-eyed and appalled gaze takes seriously the gulfs and abysses of the child’s experience, an experience shared by the mother frightened for her departing child. The woman’s face in the mirror takes on the contours of an icon or a mandala, as she becomes a Muse and her mirrored reflection causes that writing which takes on the function of life, as ink replaces blood.
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