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A review by bluelilyblue
Firstborn: Poems by Louise Glück
2.0
Louise Gluck has been a beloved writer of mine for quite a while now, and I knew that at some point I would want to read her debut. I also knew that it wasn't outstanding (the poet herself admits to being in her early 20s and craving to be a published author while she was still young); however, I am fascinated by the way language shifts and morphs across time, especially when it comes to my favourite poets, so I was naturally drawn to this collection.
It's obvious Gluck was in an ongoing process of finding her poetic voice; still I was surprised to see that her early work sounds nothing like the poetry that got her a Nobel prize for Literature--I'm not a stranger to the amount of change a writer can undergo as a result of gaining experience, both in life and in writing, but Gluck truly showcases the craft of poetry as an intimate discovery of the self, a peeling of layers which takes years to reach completion, and which eventually reveals one's true poetic ego.
Her use of language is peculiar to say the least, as if she was intentionally aiming at equivocation. It makes her poetry heavy to take in--most of it went over my head, I'll admit--it's almost a personal vernacular which, although it might have depth if understood properly, prevents the reader from interacting with the poetry and finding some universal meaning within the personal.
Now that I'm writing down my criticisms of Louise Gluck's debut, I'm realising that what earned her a Nobel prize for Literature --"her unmistakable poetic voice that with austere beauty makes individual existence universal"--is reaching the perfect equilibrium between the innate poetic gaze and the continued perseverance to translate raw feeling into language. I look up to Louise Gluck as the epitome of contemporary poetry, of poignancy derived from simplicity, from the mere act of Seeing the world; her debut, albeit far from perfect, is a stepping stone for the woman who would grow to become one of today's most expressive poets.
It's obvious Gluck was in an ongoing process of finding her poetic voice; still I was surprised to see that her early work sounds nothing like the poetry that got her a Nobel prize for Literature--I'm not a stranger to the amount of change a writer can undergo as a result of gaining experience, both in life and in writing, but Gluck truly showcases the craft of poetry as an intimate discovery of the self, a peeling of layers which takes years to reach completion, and which eventually reveals one's true poetic ego.
Her use of language is peculiar to say the least, as if she was intentionally aiming at equivocation. It makes her poetry heavy to take in--most of it went over my head, I'll admit--it's almost a personal vernacular which, although it might have depth if understood properly, prevents the reader from interacting with the poetry and finding some universal meaning within the personal.
Now that I'm writing down my criticisms of Louise Gluck's debut, I'm realising that what earned her a Nobel prize for Literature --"her unmistakable poetic voice that with austere beauty makes individual existence universal"--is reaching the perfect equilibrium between the innate poetic gaze and the continued perseverance to translate raw feeling into language. I look up to Louise Gluck as the epitome of contemporary poetry, of poignancy derived from simplicity, from the mere act of Seeing the world; her debut, albeit far from perfect, is a stepping stone for the woman who would grow to become one of today's most expressive poets.
Birth, not death, is the hard loss.
I know. I also left a skin there