Jack Gilbert Poems
|1.||Poetry Is A Kind Of Lying||4/15/2015|
|2.||Summer At Blue Creek, North Carolina||5/4/2012|
|5.||Portrait Number Five: Against A New York Summer||1/1/2004|
|6.||In Dispraise Of Poetry||1/13/2003|
|8.||Recovering Amid The Farms||1/13/2003|
|10.||Searching For Pittsburgh||1/13/2003|
|11.||Failing And Flying||5/4/2012|
|12.||Horses At Midnight Without A Moon||5/4/2012|
|13.||The Forgotten Dialect Of The Heart||1/13/2003|
|15.||Tear It Down||1/13/2003|
|16.||The Great Fires||1/13/2003|
|17.||The Abnormal Is Not Courage||1/13/2003|
|19.||A Brief For The Defense||5/4/2012|
A Brief For The Defense
Sorrow everywhere. Slaughter everywhere. If babies
are not starving someplace, they are starving
somewhere else. With flies in their nostrils.
But we enjoy our lives because that's what God wants.
Otherwise the mornings before summer dawn would not
be made so fine. The Bengal tiger would not
be fashioned so miraculously well. The poor women
at the fountain are laughing together between
the suffering they have known and the awfulness
in their future, smiling and laughing while somebody
in the village is very sick. There is laughter
every day in the terrible ...
Searching For Pittsburgh
The fox pushes softly, blindly through me at night,
between the liver and the stomach. Comes to the heart
and hesitates. Considers and then goes around it.
Trying to escape the mildness of our violent world.
Goes deeper, searching for what remains of Pittsburgh
in me. The rusting mills sprawled gigantically
along three rivers. The authority of them.
The gritty alleys where we played every evening were
stained pink by the inferno always surging in the sky,