By (Greek deity) Persephone; Glück, Louise
Averno is a small crater lake in southern Italy, seemed through the traditional Romans because the front to the underworld. That position offers its identify to Louise Glück's 10th assortment: in a panorama became irretrievably to wintry weather, it's a gate or passageway that invitations site visitors among worlds whereas while resisting their reconciliation. Averno is a longer lamentation, its lengthy, stressed poems no much less spellbinding for being with out traditional resoltution or comfort, no much less ravishing for being savage, grief-stricken. What Averno offers isn't really a map to some extent of arrival or departure, yet a diagram of the place we're, the harrowing, enduring present.
Averno is a 2006 nationwide e-book Award Finalist for Poetry.
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The old people, they think— this is what they always do: talk about things no one can see to cover up all the brain cells they’re losing. They wink at each other; listen to the old one, talking about the spirit because he can’t remember anymore the word for chair. It is terrible to be alone. I don’t mean to live alone— to be alone, where no one hears you. I remember the word for chair. I want to say—I’m just not interested anymore. I wake up thinking you have to prepare. Soon the spirit will give up— all the chairs in the world won’t help you.
We grew silent, hypnotized by the snow as though a kind of turbulence that had been hidden before was becoming visible, something within the night exposed now— In our silence, we were asking those questions friends who trust each other ask out of great fatigue, each one hoping the other knows more and when this isn’t so, hoping their shared impressions will amount to insight. Is there any benefit in forcing upon oneself the realization that one must die? Is it possible to miss the opportunity of one’s life?
BLUE ROTUNDA I am tired of having hands she said I want wings— But what will you do without your hands to be human? I am tired of human she said I want to live on the sun— • Pointing to herself: Not here. There is not enough warmth in this place. Blue sky, blue ice the blue rotunda lifted over the flat street— And then, after a silence: • I want my heart back I want to feel everything again— That’s what the sun meant: it meant scorched— • It is not finally interesting to remember. The damage is not interesting.