Having taught college English for more than 30 years, I have long been aware of Louise Glück and have taught her work in American literature courses. The announcement of her Nobel Prize was less a shock than it was a moment of great satisfaction to see something awarded that is so well-deserved.
9:00 Glück begins speaking 10:15 Mock Orange 11:45 The Red Poppy 12:45 The Wild Iris 14:32 Telescope 18:27 Landscape 30:58 Before the Storm 34:34 First Snow 36:43 A Village Life 41:57 Crossroads 46:13 A Foreshortened Journey 49:43 A Work of Fiction
Thanks ashlyn for taking time to add all these useful timecodes so we can all have a quick listen to the 2020 Nobel Laureate read her own works and add some cool context! P.S. In case you or others are curious, here is a phone interview of her as she just learned of the news which the Nobel Prize entitled: "It's too new … it's too early here." twitter.com/NobelPrize/status/1314206571275014148 P.S. I hope you don't mind me shared your Timecodes in this Tweet which I gave credit to you. twitter.com/Kempton/status/1314388549987262464
Excellent! Her ideas and emotions will remain alive after her physical death. Just great poetess. Many many congratulations to her for receiving the Nobel Prize for Literature. We are honored to listen to her recitation. Thank you very much for sharing it. Mujahid Syed, Lucknow
Enjoyed very much your poems and unique cadence and word choices that had an emotional impact and kept me engaged throughout. I, too, am a poet ( I write mostly Japanese format poems i.e. haiku , senryu, tanka/kyoka, haibun etc. I hope you don’t mind me sharing a Tanka and a haiku dedicated to Matshuo Bashō’s frog with added insightful commentary by the late AHA founder and poet Jane Reichhold who considered my haiku among her 10 favorite haiku of all time! What an honor. Here’s the Bashō poem with Jane Reichhold’s insightful commentary: Bashō’s frog four hundred years of ripples At first the idea of picking only 10 of my favorite haiku seemed a rather daunting task. How could I review all the haiku I have read in my life and decide that there were only 10 that were outstanding? Then realized I was already getting a steady stream of excellent haiku day by day through the AHA forum. The puns and write-offs based on Basho's most famous haiku are so numerous I would have said that nothing new could be said with this method, but here Al Fogel proved me wrong. Perhaps part of my delight in this haiku lies in the fact that I agree with him. Here he is saying one thing about realism-ripples are on a pond after a frog jumps in, but because it refers back to Basho and his famous haiku, he is also saying something about the haiku and authors who have followed him. We, and our work, are just ripples while Basho holds the honor of inventing the idea of the sound of a frog leaping is the sound of water As haiku spreads around the world, making ripples in more and larger ponds, its ripples are wider-including us all. But his last word reminds us that we are ripples and our lives ephemeral. It will be the frogs that will remain. ~~ Now the tanka: returning home from a Jackson Pollock exhibition I smear paint on my face and morph into art. ~~
Wow, Amazing,,, she has very wide imagination.. Unique lady She is mixing nature changing with emotions huminity changing.. Describe material things with deep feelings.. She has a very wide vision... With huge suffering as human beings
I quite resonate with The Landscape with it's time motif as neither here nor there yet Everywhere. I like her languorous voice"Where is Home?" In Death you will die; Resurrection in Life Again. Winter,spring and what next...
I'd read a few of Gluck's slim volumes over the years and thought she was good but overrated. I was much younger then and believe now that my mind and poetic ear had yet to mature enough to truly appreciate her work. Whenen the collected poems omnibus was published, I became entranced with her art--taken as a whole, I now see the mastery. Each of her books works much better in tandem with the preceding and following volumes in chronological order. New meanings arise with each reading. The collected poems book flows smoothly from beginning to end, like one massive epic stream of psyche stripped naked. She damn well deserved that Nobel Prize.
16:31 "This began when my son was born ..." And then Louise talked about "answering poem" and proceed to set up for the reading of Landscape. 18:27 Landscape P.S. Congrats to Louise Glück for her Nobel Prize. And big thanks to ashlyn whittington for adding all those wonderful timecodes (see her comment below) to the poems! #awesome
hope you don’t mind me sharing the following poem, one of my all time favorite meta poetic poems by a poet named “Howard Dull” titled “Suibhne Gheilt” that I recently chanced upon. When I read it, I became speechless. And most of my poetry friends consider this as one of their all time favorites. It was published in a 1970s anthology titled “ Open Poetry” and proves that once Poetry hits you in your heart, you could be the worst nefarious scoundrel with kings at your bidding and Empires at your command but you will be transformed and never again return to your former Self. ~~ Suibhne Gheilt 1 He has haunted me now for over a year that madman Suibhne Gheilt who in the middle of a battle looked up and saw something that made him leap up and fly over swords and trees - a poet gifted above all others - 11 How could a proud loud mouth who yelled KILL KILL KILL as he plowed done the enemy - heads rolling off of his sword - be so lifted up ( or fly up as those below saw it - wings beating) be so suddenly gifted with poetry and nest so high in Ireland’s tall trees? Is there a point where all paths cross? And why am I so drawn to him that all my questions seem shot in his direction? “And they ran into the woods and threw their lances and shot their arrows up through the branches” What parallels could I ever hope to find - my refusal to fight ( weaseling out on psychiatric grounds)? my leaving my country behind? my poetry? “and my wife wept on the path below. . . Oh memory is sweet but sweeter is the sorrel in the pool in the path below” I fly down every night to eat 111 Sweeney like the rest of us would have been better off if he had never anything to do with women. But the point of it lies hidden in a pool of milk in a pile of shit for you to see when a milkmaid smiles Sweeney like the rest of us flies down and when she pours the milk into the hole her heel made in the cowdung Sweeney like the rest of us kneels down and drinks and dies on the horn the cowherd hid in it. So before you have anything to do with women remember Sweeney the bird of Ireland lying on his back in the middle of that path in the moonlight. 1V And on my way home this morning ( my wife waiting) my shadow racing up the path ahead of me I saw something ( a black stone?) thrown at the back of its head ducked and spun around so fast I almost fell down - it was a bird flying up into a tree V No good could come out of this war out of what burns in the heart of our highly disciplined John Q. Killer as a whole village bursts into one flame - the villagers streaming like tears towards the forest cover his helicopter’s blades blow the leaves off and and the flame towards. . . as we sit in front of our bubbles watching our president ( whose bubbletalk no one can escape and he is a little bit mad -calling the reporters in for an interview while he’s sitting on the bubble having a bubble movement) and first lady climb into their big bubble bed an Lucy, born of their own bubbles, crawls in between - “ Mah daddy has so many troubles turning the world into a bubble and sick of crossfire - the cries of the women and children flying over his head - he stumbled down to the riverbank and found, the wreckage twisted around the tree behind, his skull. . . Noises, there are noises, noises that can of themselves drive a man mad -NOISES! But last night the Stockhausen penetrated from the four sides of the auditorium, stripping each layer of feeling and thought until all that was left was something the size of a nut - so tiny, so hard, so impenetrable it was alone in the middle of an infinite space. . . -Howard Dull ~~ ps: Howard Dull was such an obscure poet that he never published a book and ( to my knowledge) never published another poem. But OMG, this was so brilliant that in my opinion it should be read and studied at the college level. All love in isolation from Miami Beach, Florida, Al
Could someone please explain to me the meaning of the last line of the last poem in The House on the Marshlands, "The Apple Trees"--what is the meaning/significance of "women rooted to the river." That seemed to me to have come out of nowhere.
I didn’t know that there is a great poets who write in English until I saw this after getting noble prize congratulations and any suggestions because I want to read some English poems
As Heaney pointed out, the Nobel is a lottery. LG is this year's winner. Congrats to her! That said, can't help but feel there are bigger and better people out there they could have chosen. A meritocracy it is not! Enjoy reading her poetry in any case.
@dontzenyourselfout That is a typical moronic comment from the world of YT... Any literate person who loves poetry would know exactly what I mean. Sorry if the idea of meritocracy offends!
@dontzenyourselfout Yes, what passes for 'judgement' in your subliterate mind is actually evidence that I am a reader who is capable of critically engaging with the tradition. You, on the other hand, take refuge in meaningless fake outrage that is devoid of any real content. The herd lives to hate: nothing beyond that other than its own relentless mediocrity.
@dontzenyourselfout Vanitas in the biblical tradition does not mean 'vanity' you hopeless ignoramus. Enjoy your ignorance. Not even poetry is safe from the mindless haters online.
@dontzenyourselfout If you're looking for hate, read your own responses to my post- childish intolerance at its finest. You"re obviously some kind of pseudo-religious freak. Plenty of them about. I'm sure the little baby Jesus when he's not encouraging you to kill muslims etc wants you to hate. He just LOVES to see you hate. Your content-less mindless drivel (on a thread devoted to poetry) must be a real joy to him.
Brief Bio: I’m Al Fogel born in 1945 and at an early age began writing poems. In 1962 I was introduced to a neighbor who just returned from Avatar Meher Baba’s “ East west” gathering and handed me a book titled “The Everything and the Nothing” that included brief but powerful passages by Meher Baba that touched me deeply and i became a “ Baba Lover” In 2010 while on Jane Reichhold’s AHA website workshopping poems I befriended a Chinese man who helped me perfect my Senryu and Haibun. I am now considered one of the nations leading authorities on Tanka , Senryu, and Haibun. Here are some examples of each of my specialties. They are all from the contemporary American format. Senryu ( senryu is the humorous human side of haiku. Usually 3 lines but can be 2 or 1 line so long as it is 17 syllables or less). It is considered the humorous human side of haiku. For example, the following two of mine are horrific and heartbreaking dealing with the Holocaust): cattle cars - between the slats human eyes ~ Stutthof - the stench of burnt smoke from the chimneys (And here are some more examples): thrift store purchase inside the leather jacket a tarnished half-heart ~ dentist chair the hygienist removes my Bluetooth ~ Internet argument all his words in CAPS hers in EMOTICONS ~ personal trainer I grunt sweat strain and HE gets paid ~ after the divorce he spends more time at the dollar store ~ damsel in distress Clarke Kent still searching for a phone booth ~ cauliflower ears once a contender now boxing vegetables ~ under the influence - moonshine ~ Audubon sale all variety of seeds. . . early birds welcome ~ Buddhist fortune cookie the unfolded paper reads “ better luck next birth!” ~ sudden downpour. . . adults run for shelter ~ sidewalk cafe birds and people tweeting ~ Crowded crosswalk the “seeing eye” dog leads the way ~ deserted train depot a long line of tracks leading nowhere ~~ return to my youth lit by the tracks of Lionel trains. ~ Tanka: (Tanka is comprised of 5 lines of 31 syllables or less. Usually there are far less syllables) Here are 3 examples: returning home from a Jackson pollock exhibition I smear my face with paint and morph into art ~ crowded bus a young lady offers me her seat it seems like only yesterday I was offering mine ~ deserted train depot a conductor shouting “ All Aboard!” now a long line of tracks leading nowhere ~ Haibun: ( the haibun consists of a prose section with one or more haiku that must in some way relate to the prose. All Haibun have titles Here are some examples: The Mathematics of Retribution “Karma is unfathomable,” I inform her It’s late and our conversation turns heavy “ Seems simple to me, “my girlfriend responds. “If I murder you, then it’s reasonable that I will be murdered in this or another life to balance the ledger.” “ Not necessarily so” I’m quick to rejoin. “What if you murdered me in this life because I murdered you in a prior life karmic debts and dues are now equalized.” “But what if I get caught and I go to jail for life. Where’s the equal payback in that?” “As I said, karma is unfathomable.” We continue discussing reincarnation and then add the possibilities of “group karma” to the mix Finally, at about midnight, we fall asleep Stutthof - the stench of burnt hair from the chimneys ~~ Mama There were days when I pretended to be too sick to go to school - - just for mamas loving embrace -her arms the heat of home Even with the onset of dementia, her cheerfulness was so contagious it was a joy being around her despite the illness. She made everyone laugh with her spontaneous unpredictable behavior. nursing home bumper wheelchair her favorite pastime Once a week I would whisk her away from the assisted-living facility and we would spend several hours together -grabbing a meal or frequenting some of her favorite second-hand stores where she loved to shop and donate clothes. When we drove to her favorite thrift in November, her dementia worsened. thrift store the dress mama donated she wants to buy On a cold December morn mama passed. The funeral was simple. There was a light drizzle as the family gathered at the gravesite. One by one, with eyes full of rain, we said our last goodbyes. autumn twilight - oh mama tuck me under hug me one more time ~ ‘Round Midnight It was a huge ballroom on the top floor of a building on Broadway --an important midtown crossroads in the heart of the Great White Way. My uncle still talks with reverence about how -in his heyday -he would travel by rail to the corner of Lenox and walk inside to the beat of jungle music. Who knew what to expect? One night you might be listening with rapt attention to Theloneous Monk and Dizzy Gillespie the godfathers of bebop in their signature beret caps, or the Nicholas Brothers flashing their wild acrobatic spins and splits, or enchanted by the sweet taste of Brown Sugar -with Bojangles out front. And when the Bird was in flight, even the moon was not high enough. But in 1940 the ballroom closed its doors to make way for a commercial housing development and another kind of night. Harlem The A-train replaced by the Bullet ~ Atlantic City New Jersey I had just graduated from high school I remember stopping for saltwater taffy -as evening journeyed slowly into night. Nearing curfew, we sat on a protruded sandy enclave--holding hands, looking out at the ocean, not saying much. In the distance the lights from an ocean liner flickered as the night kept coming on in... first “french kiss” under the boardwalk “over the moon!” ~~ All love, Al
Non trovo che questa poetessa sia da Nobel. Non ci siamo proprio. Trovo le sue poesie veramente mediocri sotto tutti i punti di vista e di una banalità sconcertante. Mi dispiace perché credo che ciò farà abbassare ancor di più il livello culturale, che, invece, dovrebbe esser tenuto molto più alto. Spero che anche questa non sia una operazione commerciale, atta sempre di più a massificare i consumi, ad appiattire le menti, ad allontanare i giovani dalla Bellezza. Penso che questa poetessa abbia avuto il privilegio di annoiarsi molto nella vita e di avere molto tempo a disposizione. Tempo che non ha un operaio o chi deve guadagnarsi la vita. Tradotto : poesia borghese, vuota e stucchevole, priva di una qualsivoglia originalità, ricerca e impegno. Mi dispiace, ma questo è il mio pensiero, con tutto il rispetto per la signora.
Uma vergonha! A ridícula academia sueca já deu prêmio para o fraco Bob Dylan, que só publicou um livro na vida. Agora dá o prêmio para uma patética poetisa. Horrível! Devia dar o prêmio somente para romancistas. Esses é que fazem realmente um excelente trabalho à literatura. Ao mesmo tempo, devia criar o Nobel de música e o Nobel de poesias.
Uma vergonha! A ridícula academia sueca já deu prêmio para o fraco Bob Dylan, que só publicou um livro na vida. Agora dá o prêmio para uma patética poetisa. Horrível! Devia dar o prêmio somente para romancistas. Esses é que fazem realmente um excelente trabalho à literatura. Ao mesmo tempo, devia criar o Nobel de música e o Nobel de poesia. Louise pode merecer o Nobel de poesia e não o da literatura. Lamentável...
I hope you don’t mind me sharing the following poem, one of my all time favorite meta poetic poems by a poet named “Howard Dull” titled “Suibhne Gheilt” that I recently chanced upon. When I read it, I became speechless. And most of my poetry friends consider this as one of their all time favorites. It was published in a 1970s anthology titled “ Open Poetry” and proves that once Poetry hits you in your heart, you could be the worst nefarious scoundrel with kings at your bidding and Empires at your command but you will be transformed and never again return to your former Self. ~~ Suibhne Gheilt 1 He has haunted me now for over a year that madman Suibhne Gheilt who in the middle of a battle looked up and saw something that made him leap up and fly over swords and trees - a poet gifted above all others - 11 How could a proud loud mouth who yelled KILL KILL KILL as he plowed done the enemy - heads rolling off of his sword - be so lifted up ( or fly up as those below saw it - wings beating) be so suddenly gifted with poetry and nest so high in Ireland’s tall trees? Is there a point where all paths cross? And why am I so drawn to him that all my questions seem shot in his direction? “And they ran into the woods and threw their lances and shot their arrows up through the branches” What parallels could I ever hope to find - my refusal to fight ( weaseling out on psychiatric grounds)? my leaving my country behind? my poetry? “and my wife wept on the path below. . . Oh memory is sweet but sweeter is the sorrel in the pool in the path below” I fly down every night to eat 111 Sweeney like the rest of us would have been better off if he had never anything to do with women. But the point of it lies hidden in a pool of milk in a pile of shit for you to see when a milkmaid smiles Sweeney like the rest of us flies down and when she pours the milk into the hole her heel made in the cowdung Sweeney like the rest of us kneels down and drinks and dies on the horn the cowherd hid in it. So before you have anything to do with women remember Sweeney the bird of Ireland lying on his back in the middle of that path in the moonlight. 1V And on my way home this morning ( my wife waiting) my shadow racing up the path ahead of me I saw something ( a black stone?) thrown at the back of its head ducked and spun around so fast I almost fell down - it was a bird flying up into a tree V No good could come out of this war out of what burns in the heart of our highly disciplined John Q. Killer as a whole village bursts into one flame - the villagers streaming like tears towards the forest cover his helicopter’s blades blow the leaves off and and the flame towards. . . as we sit in front of our bubbles watching our president ( whose bubbletalk no one can escape and he is a little bit mad -calling the reporters in for an interview while he’s sitting on the bubble having a bubble movement) and first lady climb into their big bubble bed an Lucy, born of their own bubbles, crawls in between - “ Mah daddy has so many troubles turning the world into a bubble and sick of crossfire - the cries of the women and children flying over his head - he stumbled down to the riverbank and found, the wreckage twisted around the tree behind, his skull. . . Noises, there are noises, noises that can of themselves drive a man mad -NOISES! But last night the Stockhausen penetrated from the four sides of the auditorium, stripping each layer of feeling and thought until all that was left was something the size of a nut - so tiny, so hard, so impenetrable it was alone in the middle of an infinite space. . . -Howard Dull ~~ ps: Howard Dull was such an obscure poet that he never published a book and ( to my knowledge) never published another poem. But OMG, this was so brilliant that in my opinion it should be read and studied at the college level. All love in isolation from Miami Beach, Florida, Al
Having taught college English for more than 30 years, I have long been aware of Louise Glück and have taught her work in American literature courses. The announcement of her Nobel Prize was less a shock than it was a moment of great satisfaction to see something awarded that is so well-deserved.
9:00 Glück begins speaking
10:15 Mock Orange
11:45 The Red Poppy
12:45 The Wild Iris
14:32 Telescope
18:27 Landscape
30:58 Before the Storm
34:34 First Snow
36:43 A Village Life
41:57 Crossroads
46:13 A Foreshortened Journey
49:43 A Work of Fiction
ashlyn whittington god bless your service
Thank you
❤️❤️❤️
Thanks ashlyn for taking time to add all these useful timecodes so we can all have a quick listen to the 2020 Nobel Laureate read her own works and add some cool context! P.S. In case you or others are curious, here is a phone interview of her as she just learned of the news which the Nobel Prize entitled: "It's too new … it's too early here." twitter.com/NobelPrize/status/1314206571275014148
P.S. I hope you don't mind me shared your Timecodes in this Tweet which I gave credit to you. twitter.com/Kempton/status/1314388549987262464
Thankyou💜💜
I love the way her profound observations are cloaked in nature ,yet, shared within the intimacy of a friendship....
wonderful! thank you!
Who's here after she became a NOBLE LAUREATE? ❤️
U r commenting on every video of her
Nobel
I am. 💜
Just you, I guess.
@@mariamkinen8036 Too🔥❤️
CONGRATULATIONS - NOBEL 2020 - LOUISE GLUCK
Voice like flowing water, into the sea of peace❤️
Congratulations Nobel Laureate Louise Glück
Her devotion to her craft is really inspiring and admirable.
Excellent! Her ideas and emotions will remain alive after her physical death. Just great poetess. Many many congratulations to her for receiving the Nobel Prize for Literature. We are honored to listen to her recitation. Thank you very much for sharing it. Mujahid Syed, Lucknow
My All Time Favorite Poet! Very well Deserved Ms Gluck!!
Simply Devine!! Thank you for the upload.. I have Louise’s books, but I enjoy her interpretations so so much!!
peter did a terrific introduction to perhaps the greatest poet alive. I love this woman, so much, so much!
Wonderful! Powerful! I love her voice, slow and deep.
Congratulations to Louise Glück for winning the Nobel Prize 2020 for Literature.
Congrats!! ✨👏✨Nobel Prize winner 2020
Just you, I guess.
Enjoyed very much your poems and unique cadence and word choices that had an emotional impact and kept me engaged throughout.
I, too, am a poet ( I write mostly Japanese format poems i.e. haiku , senryu, tanka/kyoka, haibun etc. I hope you don’t mind me sharing a Tanka and a haiku dedicated to Matshuo Bashō’s frog with added insightful commentary by the late AHA founder and poet Jane Reichhold who considered my haiku among her 10 favorite haiku of all time! What an honor.
Here’s the Bashō poem with Jane Reichhold’s insightful commentary:
Bashō’s frog
four hundred years
of ripples
At first the idea of picking only 10 of my favorite haiku seemed a rather
daunting task. How could I review all the haiku I have read in my life and decide that there were only 10 that were outstanding? Then realized I was already getting a steady stream of excellent haiku day by day through the AHA forum.
The puns and write-offs based on Basho's most famous haiku are so
numerous I would have said that nothing new could be said with this
method, but here Al Fogel proved me wrong. Perhaps part of my delight in this haiku lies in the fact that I agree with him. Here he is saying one thing about realism-ripples are on a pond after a frog jumps in, but because it refers back to Basho and his famous haiku, he is also saying something about the haiku and authors who have followed him. We, and our work, are just ripples while Basho holds the honor of inventing the idea of the sound of a frog leaping is the sound of water
As haiku spreads around the world, making ripples in more and larger ponds, its ripples are wider-including us all. But his last word reminds us
that we are ripples and our lives ephemeral. It will be the frogs that will remain.
~~
Now the tanka:
returning home from
a Jackson Pollock
exhibition
I smear paint on my face
and morph into art.
~~
🇺🇸🇺🇸🇺🇸👍👍👍 Nobel prize winner 2020! Congratulation! You worth it.
Matins and Mock orange are two poems, totally are absorbed in me. Amazing.
Greatpoems so beautifully written and read..
Her citation's so clear that I could feel her reading of Village Life...
Wow, Amazing,,, she has very wide imagination.. Unique lady
She is mixing nature changing with emotions huminity changing.. Describe material things with deep feelings.. She has a very wide vision... With huge suffering as human beings
I quite resonate with The Landscape with it's time motif as neither here nor there yet Everywhere.
I like her languorous voice"Where is Home?"
In Death you will die;
Resurrection in Life Again.
Winter,spring and what next...
She signed all my books in 2012 when I saw her read at The Hammer Museum in LA. She seemed kind.
I'd read a few of Gluck's slim volumes over the years and thought she was good but overrated. I was much younger then and believe now that my mind and poetic ear had yet to mature enough to truly appreciate her work. Whenen the collected poems omnibus was published, I became entranced with her art--taken as a whole, I now see the mastery. Each of her books works much better in tandem with the preceding and following volumes in chronological order. New meanings arise with each reading. The collected poems book flows smoothly from beginning to end, like one massive epic stream of psyche stripped naked. She damn well deserved that Nobel Prize.
The wistfulness in Louise Gluck's poetry challenges the ambient superficiality.
- G. I. Sheriff
Her demeanor resonates ART
16:31 "This began when my son was born ..." And then Louise talked about "answering poem" and proceed to set up for the reading of Landscape.
18:27 Landscape
P.S. Congrats to Louise Glück for her Nobel Prize. And big thanks to ashlyn whittington for adding all those wonderful timecodes (see her comment below) to the poems! #awesome
hope you don’t mind me sharing the following poem, one of my all time favorite meta poetic poems by a poet named “Howard Dull” titled “Suibhne Gheilt” that I recently chanced upon. When I read it, I became speechless. And most of my poetry friends consider this as one of their all time favorites.
It was published in a 1970s anthology titled “ Open Poetry” and proves that once Poetry hits you in your heart, you could be the worst nefarious scoundrel with kings at your bidding and Empires at your command but you will be transformed and never again return to your former Self.
~~
Suibhne Gheilt
1
He has haunted me now for over a year
that madman Suibhne Gheilt
who in the middle of a battle
looked up and saw something
that made him leap up and fly
over swords and trees
- a poet gifted above all others -
11
How could a proud loud mouth
who yelled KILL KILL KILL
as he plowed done the enemy
- heads rolling off of his sword -
be so lifted up
( or fly up
as those below saw it
- wings beating)
be so suddenly gifted
with poetry
and nest so high
in Ireland’s tall trees?
Is there a point
where all paths cross?
And why am I so drawn to him
that all my questions
seem shot in his direction?
“And they ran into the woods
and threw their lances
and shot their arrows
up through the branches”
What parallels could I ever hope to find -
my refusal to fight
( weaseling out on psychiatric grounds)?
my leaving my country behind?
my poetry?
“and my wife wept
on the path below. . .
Oh memory is sweet
but sweeter is the sorrel
in the pool in the path below”
I fly down every night
to eat
111
Sweeney like the rest of us would have been better off if he had never anything to do with women.
But the point of it lies hidden
in a pool of milk
in a pile of shit
for you to see
when a milkmaid smiles
Sweeney like the rest of us flies down
and when she pours the milk
into the hole her heel made in the cowdung
Sweeney like the rest of us kneels down and drinks
and dies on the horn the cowherd hid in it.
So before you have anything to do with women
remember Sweeney the bird of Ireland
lying on his back
in the middle of that path
in the moonlight.
1V
And on my way home
this morning
( my wife
waiting)
my shadow
racing up the path ahead of me
I saw something
( a black stone?)
thrown
at the back of its head
ducked
and spun around
so fast
I almost fell down
- it was a bird
flying up into a tree
V
No good could come out of this war
out of what burns in the heart of our highly disciplined
John Q. Killer as a whole village bursts into one flame -
the villagers streaming like tears
towards the forest
cover his helicopter’s blades
blow the leaves off and
and the flame towards. . .
as we sit in front of our bubbles watching our president
( whose bubbletalk no one can escape and he is a little bit
mad -calling the reporters in for an interview while he’s
sitting on the bubble having
a bubble movement) and first
lady climb into their big bubble bed an Lucy, born of
their own bubbles, crawls in between -
“ Mah daddy has so many
troubles
turning the world into a bubble
and sick of crossfire -
the cries of the women and
children flying over his head -
he stumbled down to the
riverbank and found,
the wreckage twisted around the tree
behind, his skull. . .
Noises, there are noises,
noises that can of themselves drive
a man mad -NOISES!
But last night the Stockhausen penetrated from the four
sides of the auditorium, stripping each layer of feeling
and thought until all that was left was something the size
of a nut - so tiny, so hard, so impenetrable it was alone
in the middle of an infinite space. . .
-Howard Dull
~~
ps: Howard Dull was such an obscure poet that he never published a book and ( to my knowledge) never published another poem. But OMG, this was so brilliant that in my opinion it should be read and studied at the college level.
All love in isolation from Miami Beach, Florida,
Al
Glück begins speaking at 9:00.
Thanks! That introduction is an art in itself, though. Very well-crafted.
Thanks for telling us this....
You way deserve it, congratulation our generation POET!
Merci, vraiment merci
Congratulations indeed!
Well deserved, congratulations. 👏
Nobel prize winner 2020
Could someone please explain to me the meaning of the last line of the last poem in The House on the Marshlands, "The Apple Trees"--what is the meaning/significance of "women rooted to the river." That seemed to me to have come out of nowhere.
There's no meaning for poetry man
Poetry for Us.For People,us you and me.
Everybody.
No exclusivity here.
Come,join us,we are all in IT together.
Who is here after she won Nobel prize 2020
Congratulations
I didn’t know that there is a great poets who write in English until I saw this after getting noble prize congratulations and any suggestions because I want to read some English poems
congestion!
I would have loved for Louise to begin speaking one minute into the recording.
at what part she started reading all hallows?
le cose, i fiori che parlano a cui parliamo che bella poetica
This man kept droning on on on when will I hear the Nobel Prize Winner 2020.Dialectic his favourite word.
Academia 2020! To be avoided!
*”I am a Poet - I know it - hope I don’t blow it” Who said that?*
Congratulation
Congratulation mam
25:06 magical 💞🏞️
As Heaney pointed out, the Nobel is a lottery. LG is this year's winner. Congrats to her! That said, can't help but feel there are bigger and better people out there they could have chosen. A meritocracy it is not! Enjoy reading her poetry in any case.
@dontzenyourselfout That is a typical moronic comment from the world of YT... Any literate person who loves poetry would know exactly what I mean. Sorry if the idea of meritocracy offends!
@dontzenyourselfout Yes, what passes for 'judgement' in your subliterate mind is actually evidence that I am a reader who is capable of critically engaging with the tradition. You, on the other hand, take refuge in meaningless fake outrage that is devoid of any real content. The herd lives to hate: nothing beyond that other than its own relentless mediocrity.
@dontzenyourselfout Vanitas in the biblical tradition does not mean 'vanity' you hopeless ignoramus. Enjoy your ignorance. Not even poetry is safe from the mindless haters online.
@dontzenyourselfout If you're looking for hate, read your own responses to my post- childish intolerance at its finest. You"re obviously some kind of pseudo-religious freak. Plenty of them about. I'm sure the little baby Jesus when he's not encouraging you to kill muslims etc wants you to hate. He just LOVES to see you hate. Your content-less mindless drivel (on a thread devoted to poetry) must be a real joy to him.
Here again.
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Congrates Nobel Prize 2020
congrats for Nobel.
Brief Bio:
I’m Al Fogel born in 1945 and at an early age began writing poems. In 1962 I was introduced to a neighbor who just returned from Avatar Meher Baba’s “ East west” gathering and handed me a book titled “The Everything and the Nothing” that included brief but powerful passages by Meher Baba that touched me deeply and i became a “ Baba Lover” In 2010 while on Jane Reichhold’s AHA website workshopping poems I befriended a Chinese man who helped me perfect my Senryu and Haibun. I am now considered one of the nations leading authorities on Tanka , Senryu, and Haibun.
Here are some examples of each of my specialties. They are all from the contemporary American format.
Senryu ( senryu is the humorous human side of haiku. Usually 3 lines but can be 2 or 1 line so long as it is 17 syllables or less). It is considered the humorous human side of haiku.
For example, the following two of mine are horrific and heartbreaking dealing with the Holocaust):
cattle cars -
between the slats
human eyes
~
Stutthof -
the stench of burnt smoke
from the chimneys
(And here are some more examples):
thrift store purchase
inside the leather jacket
a tarnished half-heart
~
dentist chair
the hygienist removes
my Bluetooth
~
Internet argument
all his words in CAPS
hers in EMOTICONS
~
personal trainer
I grunt sweat strain
and HE gets paid
~
after the divorce
he spends more time
at the dollar store
~
damsel in distress
Clarke Kent still searching
for a phone booth
~
cauliflower ears
once a contender
now boxing vegetables
~
under
the influence -
moonshine
~
Audubon sale
all variety of seeds. . .
early birds welcome
~
Buddhist fortune cookie
the unfolded paper reads
“ better luck next birth!”
~
sudden downpour. . .
adults run
for shelter
~
sidewalk cafe
birds and people
tweeting
~
Crowded crosswalk
the “seeing eye” dog
leads the way
~
deserted train depot
a long line of tracks
leading nowhere
~~
return to my youth
lit by the tracks
of Lionel trains.
~
Tanka:
(Tanka is comprised of 5 lines of 31 syllables or less. Usually there are far less syllables)
Here are 3 examples:
returning home
from a Jackson pollock
exhibition
I smear my face with paint
and morph into art
~
crowded bus
a young lady offers me
her seat
it seems like only yesterday
I was offering mine
~
deserted train depot
a conductor shouting
“ All Aboard!”
now a long line of tracks
leading nowhere
~
Haibun: ( the haibun consists of a prose section with one or more haiku that must in some way relate to the prose. All Haibun have titles
Here are some examples:
The Mathematics of Retribution
“Karma is unfathomable,”
I inform her
It’s late and our conversation turns heavy
“ Seems simple to me, “my girlfriend responds.
“If I murder you, then it’s reasonable that I will be murdered in this or another life to balance the ledger.”
“ Not necessarily so” I’m quick to rejoin.
“What if you murdered me in this life
because I murdered you in a prior life
karmic debts and dues are now equalized.”
“But what if I get caught and I go to jail for life. Where’s the equal payback in that?”
“As I said, karma is unfathomable.”
We continue discussing reincarnation and then add the possibilities of “group karma” to the mix
Finally, at about midnight, we fall asleep
Stutthof -
the stench of burnt hair
from the chimneys
~~
Mama
There were days when I pretended to be too sick to go to school - - just for mamas loving embrace -her arms the heat of home
Even with the onset of dementia, her cheerfulness was so contagious it was a joy being around her despite the illness.
She made everyone laugh with her spontaneous unpredictable behavior.
nursing home
bumper wheelchair
her favorite pastime
Once a week I would whisk her away from the assisted-living facility and we would spend several hours together -grabbing a meal or frequenting some of her favorite second-hand stores where she loved to shop and donate clothes.
When we drove to her favorite thrift in November, her dementia worsened.
thrift store
the dress mama donated
she wants to buy
On a cold December morn mama passed.
The funeral was simple. There was a light drizzle as the family gathered at the gravesite. One by one, with eyes full of rain, we said our last goodbyes.
autumn twilight -
oh mama tuck me under
hug me one more time
~
‘Round Midnight
It was a huge ballroom on the top floor of a building on Broadway --an important midtown crossroads in the heart of the Great White Way.
My uncle still talks with reverence about how -in his heyday -he would travel by rail to the corner of Lenox and walk inside to the beat of jungle music. Who knew what to expect? One night you might be listening with rapt attention to Theloneous Monk and Dizzy Gillespie the godfathers of bebop in their signature beret caps, or the Nicholas Brothers flashing their wild acrobatic spins and splits, or enchanted by the sweet taste of Brown Sugar -with Bojangles out front. And when the Bird was in flight, even the moon was not high enough.
But in 1940 the ballroom closed its doors to make way for a commercial housing development and another kind of night.
Harlem
The A-train replaced
by the Bullet
~
Atlantic City New Jersey
I had just graduated from high school
I remember stopping for saltwater taffy -as evening journeyed slowly into night. Nearing curfew, we sat on a protruded sandy enclave--holding hands, looking out at the ocean, not saying much. In the distance the
lights from an ocean liner flickered as the night kept coming on in...
first “french kiss”
under the boardwalk
“over the moon!”
~~
All love,
Al
Non trovo che questa poetessa sia da Nobel. Non ci siamo proprio. Trovo le sue poesie veramente mediocri sotto tutti i punti di vista e di una banalità sconcertante. Mi dispiace perché credo che ciò farà abbassare ancor di più il livello culturale, che, invece, dovrebbe esser tenuto molto più alto. Spero che anche questa non sia una operazione commerciale, atta sempre di più a massificare i consumi, ad appiattire le menti, ad allontanare i giovani dalla Bellezza. Penso che questa poetessa abbia avuto il privilegio di annoiarsi molto nella vita e di avere molto tempo a disposizione. Tempo che non ha un operaio o chi deve guadagnarsi la vita. Tradotto : poesia borghese, vuota e stucchevole, priva di una qualsivoglia originalità, ricerca e impegno. Mi dispiace, ma questo è il mio pensiero, con tutto il rispetto per la signora.
Very few poets are good at performing their work. This is very flat and droning.
Uma vergonha! A ridícula academia sueca já deu prêmio para o fraco Bob Dylan, que só publicou um livro na vida. Agora dá o prêmio para uma patética poetisa. Horrível! Devia dar o prêmio somente para romancistas. Esses é que fazem realmente um excelente trabalho à literatura. Ao mesmo tempo, devia criar o Nobel de música e o Nobel de poesias.
Uma vergonha! A ridícula academia sueca já deu prêmio para o fraco Bob Dylan, que só publicou um livro na vida. Agora dá o prêmio para uma patética poetisa. Horrível! Devia dar o prêmio somente para romancistas. Esses é que fazem realmente um excelente trabalho à literatura. Ao mesmo tempo, devia criar o Nobel de música e o Nobel de poesia. Louise pode merecer o Nobel de poesia e não o da literatura. Lamentável...
This is not poetry. No meter, no rhyme, no psychologism, no plot.
Enough already bleeding heart . OY VEY
Geese Louise Please dont Tease and get down on your Knees . We're all better than you are . Admit it LONG GUYLAND .
I hope you don’t mind me sharing the following poem, one of my all time favorite meta poetic poems by a poet named “Howard Dull” titled “Suibhne Gheilt” that I recently chanced upon. When I read it, I became speechless. And most of my poetry friends consider this as one of their all time favorites.
It was published in a 1970s anthology titled “ Open Poetry” and proves that once Poetry hits you in your heart, you could be the worst nefarious scoundrel with kings at your bidding and Empires at your command but you will be transformed and never again return to your former Self.
~~
Suibhne Gheilt
1
He has haunted me now for over a year
that madman Suibhne Gheilt
who in the middle of a battle
looked up and saw something
that made him leap up and fly
over swords and trees
- a poet gifted above all others -
11
How could a proud loud mouth
who yelled KILL KILL KILL
as he plowed done the enemy
- heads rolling off of his sword -
be so lifted up
( or fly up
as those below saw it
- wings beating)
be so suddenly gifted
with poetry
and nest so high
in Ireland’s tall trees?
Is there a point
where all paths cross?
And why am I so drawn to him
that all my questions
seem shot in his direction?
“And they ran into the woods
and threw their lances
and shot their arrows
up through the branches”
What parallels could I ever hope to find -
my refusal to fight
( weaseling out on psychiatric grounds)?
my leaving my country behind?
my poetry?
“and my wife wept
on the path below. . .
Oh memory is sweet
but sweeter is the sorrel
in the pool in the path below”
I fly down every night
to eat
111
Sweeney like the rest of us would have been better off if he had never anything to do with women.
But the point of it lies hidden
in a pool of milk
in a pile of shit
for you to see
when a milkmaid smiles
Sweeney like the rest of us flies down
and when she pours the milk
into the hole her heel made in the cowdung
Sweeney like the rest of us kneels down and drinks
and dies on the horn the cowherd hid in it.
So before you have anything to do with women
remember Sweeney the bird of Ireland
lying on his back
in the middle of that path
in the moonlight.
1V
And on my way home
this morning
( my wife
waiting)
my shadow
racing up the path ahead of me
I saw something
( a black stone?)
thrown
at the back of its head
ducked
and spun around
so fast
I almost fell down
- it was a bird
flying up into a tree
V
No good could come out of this war
out of what burns in the heart of our highly disciplined
John Q. Killer as a whole village bursts into one flame -
the villagers streaming like tears
towards the forest
cover his helicopter’s blades
blow the leaves off and
and the flame towards. . .
as we sit in front of our bubbles watching our president
( whose bubbletalk no one can escape and he is a little bit
mad -calling the reporters in for an interview while he’s
sitting on the bubble having
a bubble movement) and first
lady climb into their big bubble bed an Lucy, born of
their own bubbles, crawls in between -
“ Mah daddy has so many
troubles
turning the world into a bubble
and sick of crossfire -
the cries of the women and
children flying over his head -
he stumbled down to the
riverbank and found,
the wreckage twisted around the tree
behind, his skull. . .
Noises, there are noises,
noises that can of themselves drive
a man mad -NOISES!
But last night the Stockhausen penetrated from the four
sides of the auditorium, stripping each layer of feeling
and thought until all that was left was something the size
of a nut - so tiny, so hard, so impenetrable it was alone
in the middle of an infinite space. . .
-Howard Dull
~~
ps: Howard Dull was such an obscure poet that he never published a book and ( to my knowledge) never published another poem. But OMG, this was so brilliant that in my opinion it should be read and studied at the college level.
All love in isolation from Miami Beach, Florida,
Al