Tuesday, April 29, 2014

A Summer Garden

- Louise Glück

Several weeks ago I discovered a photograph of my mother
sitting in the sun, her face flushed as with achievement or triumph.
The sun was shining. The dogs
were sleeping at her feet where time was also sleeping,
calm and unmoving as in all photographs.

I wiped the dust from my mother’s face.
Indeed, dust covered everything; it seemed to me the persistent
haze of nostalgia that protects all relics of childhood.
In the background, an assortment of park furniture, trees and shrubbery.

The sun moved lower in the sky, the shadows lengthened and darkened.
The more dust I removed, the more these shadows grew.
Summer arrived. The children
leaned over the rose border, their shadows
merging with the shadows of the roses.

A word came into my head, referring
to this shifting and changing, these erasures
that were now obvious—

it appeared, and as quickly vanished.
Was it blindness or darkness, peril, confusion?

Summer arrived, then autumn. The leaves turning,
the children bright spots in a mash of bronze and sienna.


When I had recovered somewhat from these events,
I replaced the photograph as I had found it
between the pages of an ancient paperback,
many parts of which had been
annotated in the margins, sometimes in words but more often
in spirited questions and exclamations
meaning “I agree” or “I’m unsure, puzzled—”

The ink was faded. Here and there I couldn’t tell
what thoughts occurred to the reader
but through the bruise-like blotches I could sense
urgency, as though tears had fallen.

I held the book awhile.
It was Death in Venice (in translation);
I had noted the page in case, as Freud believed,
nothing is an accident.

Thus the little photograph
was buried again, as the past is buried in the future.
In the margin there were two words,
linked by an arrow: “sterility” and, down the page, “oblivion”—

“And it seemed to him the pale and lovely
summoner out there smiled at him and beckoned...”


How quiet the garden is;
no breeze ruffles the Cornelian cherry.
Summer has come.

How quiet it is
now that life has triumphed. The rough

pillars of the sycamores
support the immobile
shelves of the foliage,

the lawn beneath
lush, iridescent—

And in the middle of the sky,
the immodest god.

Things are, he says. They are, they do not change;
response does not change.

How hushed it is, the stage
as well as the audience; it seems
breathing is an intrusion.

He must be very close,
the grass is shadowless.

How quiet it is, how silent,
like an afternoon in Pompeii.


Beatrice took the children to the park in Cedarhurst.
The sun was shining. Airplanes
passed back and forth overhead, peaceful because the war was over.

It was the world of her imagination:
true and false were of no importance.

Freshly polished and glittering—
that was the world. Dust
had not yet erupted on the surface of things.

The planes passed back and forth, bound
for Rome and Paris—you couldn’t get there
unless you flew over the park. Everything
must pass through, nothing can stop—

The children held hands, leaning
to smell the roses.
They were five and seven.

Infinite, infinite—that
was her perception of time.

She sat on a bench, somewhat hidden by oak trees.
Far away, fear approached and departed;
from the train station came the sound it made.

The sky was pink and orange, older because the day was over.

There was no wind. The summer day
cast oak-shaped shadows on the green grass.

Source: Poetry, January 2012.


  1. Hi there! I've been exploring your blog, and I have to see I really like your humor and laid back approach to blogging. I also noticed that you draw a lot of attention to mental illness awareness and other social causes. I am currently putting together a virtual book tour for an author whose collection has a few stories about mental illness. Would you be interested in reading a couple of the stories and conducting an interview with the author? To be part of the virtual book tour, you would need to post our tour banner, the interview, and a link where readers can purchase the book on a specific date. Date available are May 19, 20, 21, or 22. I look forward to hearing from you!

    1. I'm definitely interested, but since I've never done anything like it before, I don't have the first clue how to begin. Can you give me more information?

  2. Of course! I have certain dates on which the tour will take place; in this case I have May 19, 20, 21, and 22 open. What I do is read a book or collection by an author and figure out different themes in the work. I then contact blogs that are interested in one or more of those themes. This new collection by Heather Fowler, which I am currently promoting, has a few stories that discuss metal illness and the treatment of such individuals, and also how they themselves feel. If you are really busy, Heather and I can put together some content about this theme, which I will then email to you to post on your blog on the date we agree upon. Or, if you want to be more involved, I can send you a few of the short stories and I can put you in contact with Heather to do an interview via email. Or, we can do something other than an interview with you involved, if you would like! I'm basically the middlewoman who connects authors and bloggers and makes sure everything goes off without a hitch.

    1. I'm in. May 22 sounds best. Perhaps we should retire this conversation to email. Mine is listed on my About page. It's: araumiya@comcast.net