Ararat

Gluck is an amazing poet and one of the wonders of her work is that it is meant to be read like a book: front to back. This book describes her loss of her father and sister and how she has dealt with this through life, with her mother and her son. An amazing work that every poem sticks and is valuable to the collection. My favorite is Fantasy-- which is such an in tune description on loss, describing how one might describe death when they were at a loss for words.

After a friend of mine recommended Gluck's poetry to me, I bought Ararat at the local bookstore and it sat on my shelf for months. Finally, when I found the time, I sat down and read it. I thought about it. And then I read it again. It is a phenomenal book. What I especially enjoy is Gluck's approach to writing a complete sequence of poems, which she then encloses in a "book." Story or myth, call it what you will--behind these poems is a disciplined passion, a sort of genius that I appreciate. READ IT, I promise you won't be sorry.

Through "ARARAT" I discovered Louise Glück,my most favorite living poet on this planet.Every book she created is deep,elegant and mystifying.

Probably the most influential book of poetry published in the language in the last two decades; solidified (and spawned a generation of mimics of) what is now widely recognized as The Gluck Style: spare, unblinking but not unflinching, tough, mournful, deceptively simple. The book, rightfully, that all her other books (except The Wild Iris) may be judged. "Long ago I was wounded.." it begins. Gluck turns away from alluding to a specific mythology (though she runs back to it in Meadowlands and Vita Nova; though, in fact, Ararat itself is a Jewish myth) to read the mythology of domesticity: her father the hero, her sister the Fury, her mother like Dido, herself like Euridice, whose only hope of escaping is to turn completely away. But Gluck was "born to a vocation," to bear witness to the great and ordinary mysteries, the death of her father, the death of a sister, the ache and hunger repeated infinitely within her drama of four, the view of her family that will reduce her to ashes in the act of witnessing. "Like Adam, I was the firstborn. Believe me, you never heal. You never forget the ache in your side where something was taken to make another person." She accomplishes all: poetry, drama, narrative. And somehow she escapes the cheap glamour of confessional poetry. These are painfully honest pieces that she somehow also keeps at arm's length, to examine like an artifact. By all means, read this book. The language and imagery and syntax are easy, unintimidating, and then you realize that she has laid out quite plainly the way people love and harbor and reject one another. "Long ago, I was wounded. I thought that pain meant I was not loved. It meant I loved."