Snowdrops by Louise Glück
Resilience in Bloom and Navigating the Start of a New Year with Poetry
Do you know what I was, how I lived? You know
what despair is; then
winter should have meaning for you.
I did not expect to survive,
earth suppressing me. I didn't expect
to waken again, to feel
in damp earth my body
able to respond again, remembering
after so long how to open again
in the cold light
of earliest spring--
afraid, yes, but among you again
crying yes risk joy
in the raw wind of the new world.
Hello and welcome to Words that Burn, the podcast taking a closer look at poetry. This will be the first poem of 2025 and should be coming to you on New Year’s day. It is suitably centred around the poem Snowdrops by renowned American poet Louise Glück. The snowdrop is a flower that blooms, against all odds in January (Bishop et al. 2001) and was an opportunity to cover a poet I’ve been wanting to feature for a very long time.
Louise Glück was a huge figure in the poetry world, even winning the Nobel prize for literature in 2020 (Nobel Prize 2020). At the time judges praised her ‘’unmistakable poetic voice that with austere beauty makes individual existence universal" (The Nobel Prize 2020). This high praise for her unmistakable poetic voice is a rather apt summation of her journey as a poet. This is especially true, as, in her early career she was often compared with the likes of Sylvia Plath and Anne Sexton (Mitgutsch 1984), but with time Glück would distinguish herself as a truly unique poetic voice.
Her work frequently used a broad swathe of poetic techniques refined to their sharpest point.
Those points come in the form of a delicate balance of contradictions: stoicism and vulnerability, austerity and expansiveness. Her language is precise yet evocative, inviting readers to confront both the sorrow and beauty of life. The emotional depth of her work lies in its ability to hold opposing forces—such as grief and hope—in tension, ultimately revealing moments of transformation even amid loss. (Cho 2020)
As for themes, her poetry digs deeply into the human experience, focusing on grief, transformation, and the fragile nature of existence. Her work often draws on nature and mythology to explore and reinterpret concepts of life, death, and renewal. One of the most distinctive features of her poetry is her treatment of death—not as a definitive ending, but as a point of transition and transformation. In her poems, natural imagery such as flowers, water, and landscapes symbolise the interconnectedness of loss, memory, and renewal. She often conveys a sense that every ending holds the seed of a beginning, emphasizing cycles of rebirth.
This couldn’t be more true for this poem Snowdrops, which is written almost from the point of view of the titular flower explaining its own emergence into the world. The reason I’ve chosen the poem for the beginning of the year is held in this idea of rebirth. For me, the new years event, which we’ve all just seen the back of, seems to be treated, at least in western societies, as a hard reboot, a precipice of pure aspiration and anticipation. The dreaded word resolution gets thrown around at gatherings and people rattle off lists of soon to be accolades as long as your arm. Any reflection that is done, seems to focus on what we haven’t achieved or managed. All this culminates in turning Janurary into a bit of pressure cooker for self improvement. Whilst I have nothing against striving to improve, I think the lack of reflection takes a lot from us. We rarely view our years as a record of accomplishment, instead we all can’t wait for the new year to start. It should probably, as I hope this poem might prove, be the other way around.
The first stanza of this poem covers much of what makes Glück's verse so unique, it is stark, bleak and yet, somehow, distinctly human. It is made up of 3 lines: Do you know what I was, how I lived? You know
what despair is; then
winter should have meaning for you.
We as an audience are immediately engaged by a rhetorical question and establish a mystery around the speaker; Do you know what I was, how I lived? We know then that perhaps our speaker isn’t human because of what and we know their life probably wasn’t boring by the question of how I lived . These questions come fast and hook us quickly. We can assume from the title of the poem that this is possibly the Snowdrops themselves. Snowdrops or Galanthus by their latin name, are those tiny brilliant blooms of white that pop up in the shade and the deep cold of winter (Bishop et al. 2001). They hold in them a wonderful contradiction. Despite their fragile and delicate appearance, they are in fact remarkably hardy and thrive in conditions that few other plants could survive. Their unusual blooming period, from January to March, has led them to becoming a favoured symbol for both death and renewal in many folktales around the world (Boddy 2020). It’s no wonder then that Glück has penned a poem on rebirth with Snowdrops at the centre.
From the initial questions we are met with a definitive statement: You know what despair is; this is striking compared to the gentle probing questions we just heard. There is certainty in this statement both from the snowdrops and Glück herself that anyone listening has experienced despair, because to live is to experience turmoil in one form or another. It cannot be avoided. With that certainty established, another can soon follow. Then winter should have meaning for you.
Winter and hardship are synonymous with one another in the western canon of literature and so to know despair is to understand Winter.
There seems to be a universal kinship established between all living things in this simple connection. Everything knows the trials of winter. Hardship is universal be it for animals or plants.
This opening stanza is quite bleak. A bleak subject matter always seemed to be at the heart of Glück's work. Her canon is one of loss, mortality and grief. This sense of near despair was often compounded by the poet’s unique ability to detach/ remove her speaker from a scene making it feel as though it was being observed from afar.
You would think that this type of alienating coldness might make finding an audience difficult but in fact it seemed to magnetise readers to her work instead. That is because at the core of most of her work, Glück was relaying a true human experience, with a near violent clarity that ensured it could be understood but always stopped short of being cruel or senseless.
Despite that Glück’s work was never without some small sliver of hope as the second stanza attests. Now the poems structure moves from the broad, almost conversational, lines of the first stanza to a stacked series of shorter lines:
I did not expect to survive,
earth suppressing me. I didn't expect
to waken again, to feel
in damp earth my body
able to respond again, remembering
after so long how to open again
in the cold light
of earliest spring–
The speaker, the snowdrops, are recounting their trauma here and Glück plays with form, technique and repetition to allow a little spike of panic to enter the poem. The speaker is describing the natural cycle of growth experienced by most plants but it is humanised in the extreme by this panic.
The lines flow short but freely thanks to enjambment:
I did not expect to survive,
earth suppressing me. I didn't expect
to waken again, to feel
in damp earth my body
We understand from these lines that Glück is hinting at more than plants in this. This notion of doubt is a common one after hardship, we wonder if life can ever truly be the same after a trauma or a hardship, after life or the earth has suppressed us. We too, might never expect to waken again. This could be brought on by anything, the loss of a relationship, a loved one, even a job. Humans are constantly forced to confront their own supposed nadirs, their lowest points, and nihilism, the loss of any and all belief can seem the only option. Faced with that kind of prospect it is no wonder that we wouldn’t expect to feel in damp earth our bodies.
It is a testament to Glück's mastery of emotion and technique that we can so easily connect the humble snowdrops experience to our own. Even without this podcast I reckon that anyone listening would feel a kinship with the abstract image of the snowdrop emerging. They would feel the prickle of panic as Glück intended. Hopelessness, however, was not Glück’s sole domain, and as the stanza continues, using the same techniques of enjambment and structure, that panic pivots to pure relief:
able to respond again, remembering
after so long how to open again
in the cold light
of earliest spring–
Here is a portrait of human (and plant) resilience. The numbness of trauma is thawing and the snowdrops find themselves able to respond again. They remember how to open and be vulnerable again, to risk connection with the outside once more; the cold light. Continuing from one line to the next now feels more a relief than an anxiety.
There is a gentle repetition of the words again in this stanza, a subtle reminder of the idea of rebirth and renewal by Glück as the earliest spring approaches.
Again there is a universality to the trauma or grief being conveyed here. Glück has no interest in prescribing the exact nature of what she is working with but rather leaves it open to the individual reader as to what it could be. She lets their grief resonate in its own way.
The hope she hints at in this poem, is not some sanitised hallmark movie or happy ending but instead is far more like the snowdrop itself; small, yet resilient. The final three lines of the poem do not promise that hardship will never happen again, they instead recognise survival and the risk of trying again:
afraid, yes, but among you again
crying yes risk joy
in the raw wind of the new world.
Repetition returns with a new word: yes. Every use is recognition and commitment. Afraid, yes but among you again. This couplet stanza is as direct as anything Glück has written. A direct voice was always at the heart of her work. She strips back the natural syntax of English, paring it down to bare bones. Afraid, yes… crying yes, risk joy. Even punctuation falls ways to ensure that readers are struck by the pure emotion and risk of it all. It is the peril and promise of a new start in an almost instinctual form.
Glück enhances the impact of this blow with the use of caesura, a pause within a line of verse, to regulate the flow and pace of her language (Masterclass 2022). This couplet continues the message of the second stanza and yet stands alone so we are forced to reflect on it individually. The technique is used a final time for the final line:
in the raw wind of the new world.
It hits like a gust of cold, raw wind, just as the poem describes. For the snowdrop, this is a brand new world, but like the old one, there are plenty of risks. We know as readers though that the Snowdrop is well built for this. It thrives in the raw winds of a new world, and so in Glück’s gorgeous metaphor for human resilience, we know that all of us can thrive here too. To call this a typical message of hope would be a lie. It embodies Louise Glück's talent for stark truth and uncomfortable humanity wholly. It acknowledges without false promise or flowery softening that at the heart of change and growth is hardship. This is not always the case, but it’s a proven catalyst. Glück parlays this eloquently and simply with one of her favourite forms of allegory; nature. She transforms an often overlooked plant into a testament to quiet hope.
More than that, she does all this by recognising that we are the sum of everything that we’ve done before; the good and the bad. As we enter this new year, it’s easy to want that blank slate, that tabula rasa effect but to ignore everything you’ve overcome and hope to start again would be a mistake. You’re still standing, it’s easy to feel that after the year that was 2024 you shouldn’t be, but you are. Remembering your hardships and understanding you overcame them can be everything you need to keep going, even if a new start is what you’re aiming for. Glück’s poem reminds us that there is no such thing as a new beginning but rather a continuation, no matter how impossible that may feel. Survival is what should be revelled in, to continue is the achievement.
survival is what should be revelled in. To continue is an achievement.
My favourite part of this poem is that the snowdrops are not demonized for they're taking time to rest. Anytime we go through a difficulty we are knocked back. And in today's busy, busy culture it can feel as though we have to take that in our stride. This is not the case. We can be buried in the earth.
We can retreat. We can hide. And yet, we will be given a chance to keep going. There is no shame in taking a breather. January can feel as though we have to surge out the gate and gallop to the finish line. That's not the case. You can take a moment, like the snowdrop, and emerge when you're ready. You might even take yourself by surprise.
I’d like to take this moment to thank each and every one of you for listening to Words that Burn this year. I’ve received so much wonderful support over the course of 2024 and interviewed some amazing guests too. I really appreciate all the comments, reviews and messages that I’ve received and I’m looking forward to bringing you even more in 2025. I’m wishing all of you a wonderful year.
What did you think of the poem? As always this is my interpretation and I’d love to hear yours. If you’d like to get in touch with me there are a few ways to do so.
Works Cited
Bishop, Matt, et al. Snowdrops: A Monograph of Cultivated Galanthus. Griffin Press, 2001.
Boddy, Kasia. Blooming Flowers: A Seasonal History of Plants and People. Yale University Press, 2020, https://www.jstor.org/stable/j.ctvzpv6j7.22. Accessed 30 December 2024.
Masterclass. “Understanding Caesura: Definition and Examples of Caesura.” Masterclass, 2022, https://www.masterclass.com/articles/definition-and-examples-of-caesura.
The Nobel Prize. “Louise Glück.” The Nobel Prize, 2020, https://www.nobelprize.org/prizes/literature/2020/gluck/facts/.
Cho, Isabella B. 2020. “Mourning, Reimagined: The Misunderstood Poetics of Louise Glück | Arts.” The Harvard Crimson.
Mitgutsch, Waltraud. 1984. “WOMEN IN TRANSITION: The poetry of Anne Sexton and Luise Glück.” AAA: Arbeiten aus Anglistik und Amerikanistik 9 (2): 131-145. https://www.jstor.org/stable/43025457.
Today I listened to the episode. Gluck's poetry touched me personally and deeply. Your voice and interpretation as usual was spellbinding. Thanks for your work.