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Louise Glück (pronounced glik) died October 13, 2023 at the age of 80. She was a highly praised and awarded American poet and essayist. She won the 2020 Nobel Prize in Literature, the Pulitzer Prize, and from 2003 to 2004, she was Poet Laureate of the United States.
Despite all those awards, I will admit to not being very familiar with her poetry. I never heard her read in person and I don't have any of her books on my shelf. After her death, there were many posts online about her and copies or links to her poems and interviews.
The poem of hers that caught my attention is a short one titled "Crossroads." I read it as a love poem to the self, written at an advanced age when one is considering their own death.
I watched an interview with her and learned a lot more about her life and work which made the poem richer on my next reading.
“Crossroads,” originally published in her 2009 book A Village Life, so she was still 14 years from her death. maybe she was contemplating death. Maybe she had an illness. In the poem, she looks at her body - not uncommon as we age - but also at her soul. She says that " it is not the earth I will miss / it is you I will miss."
"Self love" sounds selfish. But so many people don't love themselves. Therapists deal with that every day.
Listen to her read the poem and look at it on the page. Then, consider writing a love poem to yourself. What is it that you love about yourself? What will you miss about yourself? Do you already miss something you once loved about yourself?
Louise Elisabeth Glück (1943 – 2023) was an American poet and essayist. She won the 2020 Nobel Prize in Literature, whose judges praised "her unmistakable poetic voice that with austere beauty makes individual existence universal". Her other awards include the Pulitzer Prize, National Humanities Medal, National Book Award, National Book Critics Circle Award, and Bollingen Prize. From 2003 to 2004, she was Poet Laureate of the United States.
LOVE LETTER TO MYSELF
How shall I address you, who never liked
the name your mother chose but you can’t think
of something better? I love you best when
you forget yourself walking the land that’s yours
by title but only for awhile, land being itself
and no one else’s. You lose yourself in the buckeye
grove, breaking off dead branches which spooks
something – must be one of the twins, deer
family who took up residence during fawning
season long past and they’re still here, it’s their
land as much or more than yours. And now
you know the big oak fallen on the hillside –
the one meant for firewood – must stay as it is
for the deer’s sake. This is how I love you.
Taylor Graham
PSYCHOSIS
I will try to explain these emotions,
When I don't understand them myself.
I was programmed to consider good and bad,
White hat versus black hat, as simple as that.
But Life showed the limitations of this thought,
I am a victim of all loving battles I fought.
Some love is bad, some hate is good.
Though love still throbs inside me,
Untrammeled by notions of whether I should...
So, when you touched me on my face,
It was a spark, an impetuous stimulation,
Like God touching Adam in the Sistine Chapel,
An electric, headlong moment of creation,
I felt your finger's soft, tender skin.
I sensed your loneliness, deep within.
My emotions welled up, strong and fine.
Why, thank you, Dr Frankenstein!
Too late now, then, to escape my fate...
I love my susceptibility for falling in love,
As yet, quite removed from the power of hate...
John Botterill
LOVE LETTER TO ME
you have always been
worthy of that fairy tale love
you've dreamed of,
people were cruel without reason
trying to dim your light;
but you always rose out of
the darkness
shining even brighter—
your body carries beauty
even if it's not the same
as those models in
the magazines,
your hair is autumn:
gold, red, brown;
your lips are your favorite
pink magnolias of spring
and your dark brown eyes
looks like honey when hit
with the right song of sunlight—
you, self, have and always
will be enough;
and even if you never find
another to hold your hand i hope
you never forget you are worthy
because you have enough love
to birth universes out of nothing,
you have enough love to celebrate
everyone else while waiting for
your chance to be celebrated;
and i am worthy of all the love
i have given even if it won't return to me.
Linda M. Crate
LOVE THYSELF
I want to have sex with myself.
No, not what you’re thinking.
I mean I want to be me
and have another me
in the other gender.
I want to know how it feels
to be with me that way.
And I should amend that
to "make love to myself"
not just have sex.
Of course, I don’t want
it to be a bad experience,
but it might be that.
I’m willing to take the chance.
Lianna Wright
O MY BODY
Once you scampered to the highest rung
of monkey bars, then dangled by your knees
to see the world from upside down.
You skittered across icy ponds,
flitted on forest paths,
climbed trees.
The cartwheels of childhood turned
to the jitterbug of your teens;
and then you reached for the stars
in your grand jetes of modern ballet—
spinning, free-falling, rising
again and again; and again
you morphed—into the yoga twists
and tangos of your middle years,
jogging and juggling family and jobs,
unaware of the slow
calcifying of joints,
tightening of muscles,
weakening of bones;
slow—like sap trickling down
the rough bark of maple trees.
But a sweetness pooled there
in the soft honeyed swirls
of your own life dance —
sinewy arms circling now,
stretching,
reaching,
enfolding,,
embracing
this precious moment
and the next, and the next.
Barbara Whitehill
DEAR ROSE ANNA: THE POET CELEBRATES HERSELF
I’ve been lucky.
I was born in the Ozarks with a caul over my head.
Everybody back there knows that a girl born with a caul
Will be clairvoyant. That’s a big word for the Ozarks,
But everybody knows what it means. I always felt
Just a little special, like I carried a secret locket in my heart.
My name was another lucky gift, a beautiful name
That I never resented or wanted to change.
Other people changed it for me.
Grandpa always called me Rosie, but that was okay
Because he bought me more fireworks than any girl could
Dream of and let me shoot them off all by myself all day
And all night every Fourth of July, and I never blew my
Fingers off. That was another stroke of luck.
My husband just calls me Rose, and that’s all right too, because
He grew up in Japan where a person’s middle name is private.
When my family finally got to California,
Everybody there was in such a hurry, they couldn’t even be bothered
To say their whole first name when they met you.
They called themselves Mo and Tori and Dru, half of a name,
And you never learned what their last name was,
Like their parents and grandparents didn’t matter at all.
They matter to me. If Rose Anna, my great grandmother,
Hadn’t immigrated, I wouldn't’t be Rose Anna at all,
And neither would the other three Rose Annas named after her.
They’re all dead now, and I’m getting closer. I think about it every day.
When my dad was the age I am now, he had been dead for two years,
But my mother had twelve more years to live.
Where am I on this scale? I don’t know. I’m not really that clairvoyant.
I do know I’m lucky to have a son who still loves me
And a husband who’s stuck by me for sixty years.
I don’t want to get greedy. I’m no Louise Gluck
Who won every poetry prize on Earth, but it would
Be nice if I could be as lucky as Emily Dickinson
Or Gerard Manley Hopkins, who both had somebody in their lives
Who cared about them even after they were dead,
And knew how to send their poems out into the world.
That would really be lucky if my poetry still floated around
For a while after I’m off with all the other Rose Annas.
Rose Anna Higashi
WHENCE THE SCHADENFREUDE OF TOAST?
A two-slot toaster in front of three kids,
I was happy to watch my sisters
reach deep into the loaf,
knowing the heel would be far more satisfying.
Such joy anticipating the coils' first glow,
with A pushing the knob to DARK
and B’s fingertip over the CANCEL button,
a daily standoff yielding nothing good.
Then the heel, deep in the heat of the second plunge,
as radiant as an otter cub
as the morning sun warms its small, soft belly
while it bobs in the rippling wake of a canoe.
And as I watch their chosen slices
crack and crumble to touch and teeth,
the lowly heel becomes my tangible predicate
to joy in the fractured frowns of A and B.
Rob Friedman
UNCOIFFED
Have I treated you poorly?
Not appreciated you enough over the years?
My unruly tresses
In these unskilled hands
Or is ours simply a fading romance
of good memories and slow acceptance
of aging changes
Naturally dried, occasionally colored
Flecks of silver at the temples
Semi-wavy, semi-straight
Neither one nor the other
Frizzy; not fried; wild yet tamed
By the all-powerful ponytail
Corralled back and up
Playful yet no-nonsense
Rarely unloosed - Unlike my tongue
Like the eighties – long gone
with perms, curling irons
hairspray and youth - Ah, you were quite the show pony
but I was never much for the show
Long, short, somewhere between
I like choices
Age is such a taker
Options feel good
So too the simplicity
Less luxurious, less vibrant - Less
So for now I will continue to do as I please
Eventually, begrudgingly, I will follow your lead
And remind myself what’s in a mane -
Shaft, root, follicle, glands, muscle, protein,
wrapped around a history -
of love and loss - life’s dynamic duo
Terri J. Guttilla
SELF LOVE
It’s not that I want to be young again--
God no. I wouldn’t wish that on my worsted-
sweatered-old-man-in-sensible-shoes
self. I mean, we barely made it out alive
the first time around. But I’d like to talk to him--
that lonely, bored, back-row kid
I was back then. Because I think he would have
liked me. I mean, I think he would have liked
the way he turned out. And I know he would have liked
to ask me a million questions. Many of which
I know the answers to. I picture us sitting
on a bench in Taylor Park, one of his PF Fliers
jackhammering nervously next to my sensible shoes.
He looks away. Doesn’t speak. I ask him if
there’s anything he’d like to know. He looks up at me--
from this angle he can see all my ugly nose hairs,
thick as grave-grass. I no longer even bother
to trim them. “How old are you?” he asks me
and I tell him: 65. “Do you have any kids?” Yes. Two.
“Where are they now?” One is in New York City
and one is in Hawaii. “Do you miss them?”
Yes. Very much. But I miss you even more,
if that’s possible. “Am I going to beat Marc Peo
in the wrestling tournament?” Now it’s my turn
to look away. “That’s OK,” he says, “you don’t
have to say it. I understand.” And he puts his little hand
on my shoulder. “What about Cheryl Lubecki?”
What about her? “Well, do you think she likes me?”
I think your strategy of pretending not to be interested in her
isn’t working. “OK, thanks for telling me.” And he look
away again. A long silence. The trees in the park,
which are much older than both of us, seem to chortle
in the breeze. Is there anything else you’d like to know?
He takes a minute to think. Then asks, “Are you happy?”
Oh yes, in fact (and I start to choke up a little) being here now
with you, I am happier than I have ever been in my life.
Paul Hostovsky
TO MY AUTHENTIC SELF
You're complex, multi-faceted, unpredictable,
Often misunderstood.
You go against the waves of society,
Floundering neck-deep
In the currents of unfulfilled expectations and rejected norms.
You're fragile like the birds' song,
Waning
As the sun rises in the sky.
You cradle life and its people with the gentleness
Of a mother toward her newborn.
Yet, there is a side that lies dormant,
Hidden.
The average soul will never know
How you burn with eternal fierceness –
A boiler room fanning the flames of defiance,
Heat rising in protest against the tides of
Conformity.
Dear Authentic Self,
You're a magical, unfathomable combination
Of birds' songs and boiler rooms.
May you continue to fill the mundane world
With your song,
And illuminate the world in darkness
With your eternal flame.
Kirsty Mac Dougall
LOOKING IN THE MIRROR AT 80
What do I see?
Shriveled arms, protruding gut
Thinning hair, look back at me
At first glance, not much to love
But I am more than skin and bone
Arthritic limbs and nervous gut
My mind's still sharp, my voice still strong
I'll be OK till they are gone
This body's like my pickup truck
A few dents here and there, a little rust
I could buy new, but choose not to
Still gets me where I want to go
I still walk without a cane
Enjoy red meat from time to time
Do yard work when I must
My doctors say, I'm doing fine
I love what I can do with words
How strangers open up to me
I love my art, designer's eye
My natural curiosity.
I love that I know how to laugh
Especially at myself
That I am not afraid to cry
When I'm in pain
I love that I'm still passionate —
About the people in my life
Nature's awesome beauty
Humankind (despite some nagging doubts)
That's not to say this love's unmarred
There are parts of me I once despised
But, with age, have come to tolerate —
Appreciate myself, for who I am
Frank Kelly
ACCOUNTING
So that each story in its telling may summon its fate –
was this the instant when what lay ahead was hard-set –
and we may thus come to better understand ourselves, our journey,
we must begin to ask questions.
Now that you are alone, what are your days like?
Each day I rise and drink from the chilled flask of a thousand desires.
Each night I toss within the plaid cotton grumble of a thousand second-guesses.
In these days and nights, I find that solitude is the one unflawed mirror,
even when I do not recognize the face.
Looking back, how would you assess your life?
Luck. But there is no accounting for luck, is there?
Or luck piled on luck, or the reverse: luck all run out.
Do you miss work?
I miss my fellow workers.
Do you miss your fellow workers?
No. I never see them.
Who do you miss?
I miss my father.
There was never enough of him, and now there is none.
His unfilled/unfillable gloves rolled in the pockets of my winter coat
with my keys and an old mint.
I miss asking his advice – my if this, if that.
Who do you miss?
I miss my mother.
She surrounds me, even now, a blue-eyed ocean.
But I cannot say she was a good mother.
Words from her only ever meant loss, or was it less?
Still, when I was sick, she brought me canned soup and honey toast.
I miss loving her.
Did you reach the country of your dreams?
I reached the end of the map, if that is what you mean.
It was drier than I imagined: arroyos, mounds and rocks, speechless petroglyphs,
like a cigarette had burned a hole in it.
And no one was there but an older self; sadness wrapped him up like a fish.
There are new selves I am fonder of now, each with his own map.
What then of the future?
The future will not confess itself.
Yet I sleep certain knowing night will thin and the sky will be new again.
Isn’t that enough?
And what of love?
Ah, love! Love no longer fills me, though how can I not yearn for it again?
Charles S. Cobean
VALIDATIONS
I tell myself that I don't need validation.
I don't need you to tell me that I'm OK. And
G: You have an amazing trait of seeing the great in people
and shining a light on it. If people do that at all, there's always
an edge, an agenda. Not with you.
when one comes to me, unbidden and unexpected,
it moves me deeply, and I try to accept it with grace and
A: You have such a rooted, shamanic perspective.
humility. I incorporate these valued and valuable insights
into my world view, into my view of myself, because
O: The 'Robert Lens' turned up spontaneously
during a psylocibin trip, and it has literally changed my life.
I want to honour the person who said this of me, and to me,
to honour the fact that they had the courage to tell me what they see, to
M: You are older than my parents, but you sound thirty years younger.
truly appreciate their loving and heartfelt view of me,
and to love me all the more as a result. Some even reveal
P: You feel lighter. What happened? There was always a dark sliver in you,
which seems to have gone.
changes, reflecting them back to me, in real time, Divine spark to Divine spark,
messages from the Universe, gently suggesting that I love myself
a little more every day.
Robert Best
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