It is how I feel when I read Louise Gluck’s poetry, a constant sensation of a very light discomfort that never leads into a clarification, as to why is there under my skin. It never bursts, blocking me from exploring the poet’s work impact on my psyche, but bringing me to my Cd player, to play Fado music. I rather read a Romantic who painfully and grandiloquently describes how the rupture with his lover led him to the garden, get a rose, pinching himself with a thorn and bleeding to death, surrounded by flowers in the outskirts of industrial Hannover.
My body can be quite clear when talking to me. It can spend just one minute, an hour or a day, year, decade searching for an answer. How it looks for responses seems to depend on my mind, which in itself is driven by an inner power that I cannot call with no other name but spirit. Then the body knows. It talks to me, getting help from a drink: a shot of a 25 year old Barrilito given to me as a present by my neighbor. My palate leads me to know the quality of the aged spirit of the rum, to wonder about the sugar cane that began to give form to it.
My body talks to me talking to itself, saying I am hungry, in love, full of hate and, at times, it goes into clear and no-nonsense words, “You already had three shots, dizzy, stop drinking, and go to bed.” Aged spirits are much easier to handle than younger ones. They are firm, strong tight masses, full of aromas that bring so many levels of sensations and words and joy, pure joy, clear sense of purpose, things that Gluck’s poetry seem to lack.
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