Baskets

Source: City of Vancouver, Washington 

1.

It is a good thing,

in the marketplace

the old woman trying to decide

among the lettuces,

impartial, weighing the heads,

examining

the outer leaves, even

sniffing them to catch

a scent of earth

of which, on one head,

some trace remains—not

the substance but

the residue—so

she prefers it to

the other, more

estranged heads, it

being freshest: nodding briskly at the vendor's wife,

she makes this preference known,

an old woman, yet

vigorous in judgment.

2.

The circle of the world—

in its midst, a dog

sits at the edge of the fountain.

The children playing there,

coming and going from the village,

pause to greet him, the impulsive

loving interest in play,

in the little village of sticks

adorned with blue fragments of pottery;

they squat beside the dog

who stretches in the hot dust:

arrows of sunlight

dance around him.

Now, in the field beyond,

some great event is ending.

In twos and threes, boldly

swinging their shirts,

the athletes stroll away, scattering

red and blue, blue and dazzling purple

over the plain ground,

over the trivial surface.

3.

Lord, who gave me

my solitude, I watch

the sun descending:

in the marketplace

the stalls empty, the remaining children

bicker at the fountain—

But even at night, when it can't be seen,

the flame of the sun

still heats the pavements.

That's why, on earth,

so much life's sprung up,

because the sun maintains

steady warmth at its periphery.

Does this suggest your meaning:

that the game resumes,

in the dust beneath

the infant god of the fountain;

there is nothing fixed,

there is no assurance of death—

4.

I take my basket to the brazen market,

to the gathering place.

I ask you, how much beauty

can a person bear? It is

heavier than ugliness, even the burden

of emptiness is nothing beside it.

Crates of eggs, papaya, sacks of yellow lemons—

I am not a strong woman. It isn't easy

to want so much, to walk

with such a heavy basket, either

bent reed, or willow.

~ Louise Glück

Baskets

Source: City of Vancouver, Washington 

1.

It is a good thing,

in the marketplace

the old woman trying to decide

among the lettuces,

impartial, weighing the heads,

examining

the outer leaves, even

sniffing them to catch

a scent of earth

of which, on one head,

some trace remains—not

the substance but

the residue—so

she prefers it to

the other, more

estranged heads, it

being freshest: nodding briskly at the vendor's wife,

she makes this preference known,

an old woman, yet

vigorous in judgment.

2.

The circle of the world—

in its midst, a dog

sits at the edge of the fountain.

The children playing there,

coming and going from the village,

pause to greet him, the impulsive

loving interest in play,

in the little village of sticks

adorned with blue fragments of pottery;

they squat beside the dog

who stretches in the hot dust:

arrows of sunlight

dance around him.

Now, in the field beyond,

some great event is ending.

In twos and threes, boldly

swinging their shirts,

the athletes stroll away, scattering

red and blue, blue and dazzling purple

over the plain ground,

over the trivial surface.

3.

Lord, who gave me

my solitude, I watch

the sun descending:

in the marketplace

the stalls empty, the remaining children

bicker at the fountain—

But even at night, when it can't be seen,

the flame of the sun

still heats the pavements.

That's why, on earth,

so much life's sprung up,

because the sun maintains

steady warmth at its periphery.

Does this suggest your meaning:

that the game resumes,

in the dust beneath

the infant god of the fountain;

there is nothing fixed,

there is no assurance of death—

4.

I take my basket to the brazen market,

to the gathering place.

I ask you, how much beauty

can a person bear? It is

heavier than ugliness, even the burden

of emptiness is nothing beside it.

Crates of eggs, papaya, sacks of yellow lemons—

I am not a strong woman. It isn't easy

to want so much, to walk

with such a heavy basket, either

bent reed, or willow.

~ Louise Glück

Crossroads

Photo credit: taylorschlades from morguefile.com 

My body, now that we will not be traveling together much longer
I begin to feel a new tenderness toward you, very raw and unfamiliar,
like what I remember of love when I was young –

love that was so often foolish in its objectives
but never in its choices, its intensities
Too much demanded in advance, too much that could not be promised -

My soul has been so fearful, so violent;
forgive its brutality.
As though it were that soul, my hand moves over you cautiously,

not wishing to give offense
but eager, finally, to achieve expression as substance:

it is not the earth I will miss,
it is you I will miss.

~ Louise Glück

Crossroads

Photo credit: taylorschlades from morguefile.com 

My body, now that we will not be traveling together much longer
I begin to feel a new tenderness toward you, very raw and unfamiliar,
like what I remember of love when I was young –

love that was so often foolish in its objectives
but never in its choices, its intensities
Too much demanded in advance, too much that could not be promised -

My soul has been so fearful, so violent;
forgive its brutality.
As though it were that soul, my hand moves over you cautiously,

not wishing to give offense
but eager, finally, to achieve expression as substance:

it is not the earth I will miss,
it is you I will miss.

~ Louise Glück