By Louise Glück
Averno is a small crater lake in southern , seemed via the traditional Romans because the front to the underworld. That position provides its identify to Louise Glück's 11th assortment: in a panorama grew to become irretrievably to iciness, it's the basically resource of warmth and light-weight, a gate or passageway that invitations site visitors among worlds whereas while opposing their reconciliation. Averno is a longer lamentation, its lengthy, stressed poems no much less spellbinding for being with out plot or desire, 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 presence.
Averno is a 2006 nationwide e-book Award Finalist for Poetry.
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Extra info for Averno
Hark his mufHed drumslLet us be drunken when the Pictor comesl 32 John G. Neihartit XIX CONFESSION y love is like the snarl of haughty drums And blare of trumpets, when a great one comes Down some thronged breathless city thoroughfare: And yours is like a song that fills the air Of evening when the dew has made it sweet And Peace walks through the dusk with quiet feet. M My love is like the visual shout of red That threads the drowsing of a poppy bed In summer, when the sun makes heavy heat: And yours is like the white flower, cool and sweet, That fills the kind shade with a pleasant scent, Unshrivelled with the sun and well content.
Their strong hands caress me. Comforters of battling men are they, Breeders of fighting men, Sucklers of the big and unafraid! o ancient Mate of mine I o good blonde Giantess, Blown far to hitherward through the weird ways of my sleeping I Thou knowest the hidden beauty of my lusts I Touch me in my prison of the Present I Thine eyes are blue with the calm understanding of the old skies, And thine hempen hair exhales the breath of the forests of home. Over our ancient camps are builded the cities of the AnlEIllic.
Over our ancient camps are builded the cities of the AnlEIllic. The gods of our old believing are fled, And men of lesser dreams, hair-splitters and too wise, Have builded little walls about a shriveled-up divinity! While I-of ancient spirit and of modem fleshGo blundering through the fragile scheme of things, Feeling old loves and lusts and with a little voice Shouting aloud rude snatches of old cries I 46 John G. Neihardt I long for the smoke-tang of vanished campfires I J hunger for the feasts of bigger men I Too frail for these old giant lusts, I shrivel, And my heart aches for home.
Averno by Louise Glück