Jack Gilbert Poems
|1.||Poetry Is A Kind Of Lying||4/15/2015|
|3.||Summer At Blue Creek, North Carolina||5/4/2012|
|6.||Portrait Number Five: Against A New York Summer||1/1/2004|
|7.||In Dispraise Of Poetry||1/13/2003|
|9.||Recovering Amid The Farms||1/13/2003|
|11.||Searching For Pittsburgh||1/13/2003|
|12.||Failing And Flying||5/4/2012|
|13.||Horses At Midnight Without A Moon||5/4/2012|
|14.||The Forgotten Dialect Of The Heart||1/13/2003|
|16.||Tear It Down||1/13/2003|
|17.||The Great Fires||1/13/2003|
|18.||The Abnormal Is Not Courage||1/13/2003|
|20.||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 ...
Once upon a time I was sitting outside the cafe
watching twilight in Umbria when a girl came
out of the bakery with the bread her mother wanted.
She did not know what to do. Already bewildered
by being thirteen and just that summer a woman,
she now had to walk past the American.
But she did fine. Went by and around the corner
with style, not noticing me. Almost perfect.
At the last instant could not resist darting a look