Louise Glück: The Wild Iris

Big news in the poetry world: Louise Glück has been awarded the Nobel Prize in literature. Like many, I was inspired to revisit my poetry shelf. Yes, I was familiar with the name—Glück has achieved considerable renown—and yet, I could not call to mind a single poem or line. I found her first four books, in a single collected edition, as well at The Wild Iris. I flipped through them, waiting for that spark of recognition. It never came. I had to admit, despite being a receptive reader, that her work does not speak to me on any level. It is sparse, elliptical, often first-person though not Confessional. The diction is unfailingly deadpan. It’s not quite cerebral, not quite emotive. In fact, it’s largely devoid of affect. Interestingly, I could not discern any major shift or growth between her first book and her later works. For some poets, that comes from having a unique, compelling voice. But I don’t find Glück’s voice to be particularly distinct, which is to say, I can’t tell the difference between a line by Glück and a line by, say, Jorie Graham.  In The Wild Iris, it’s initially intriguing to see so many poems with the same title (e.g., “Matins” and “Vespers”); but rather than collectively present a Cubist view of a subject, they each seem self-contained and interchangeable, and eschew any dialog amongst themselves. 

So, my initial enthusiasm at seeing an American poet honored with a Nobel prize was undercut by the uneasy suspicion that the committee had made yet another questionable decision in an effort to stay relevant or divert attention from its salacious recent history. And though I hesitate to disparage the work of any poet, I’m sure that a few critical words from me will do nothing to sully Glück’s reputation, or detract from her widespread acclaim. There are clearly many people, in positions of authority, who find more in her work than I do.