Biography of Ernest Hilbert
Ernest Hilbert is the author of three collection of poetry, Sixty Sonnets, All of You on the Good Earth, and Caligulan, which was selected as winner of the 2017 Poets’ Prize. He lives in Philadelphia where he works as a rare book dealer, opera librettist, and book reviewer for The Washington Post. His poem “Mars Ultor” appears in Best American Poetry 2018.
Ernest Hilbert's Works:
Sixty Sonnets (2009) , All of You on the Good Earth (2013) , Caligulan (2015) .
- Calavera For A Friend
- Biglin Brothers Racing
- Lines On The Winter Solstice
- At The Grave Of Thomas Eakins, Late Wint...
- Letter To A Godson
- Prophetic Outlook
- Fortunate Ones
- The Singles Scene
- Domestic Situation
- A Few Drinks And We're All Poets
- The Retired Literary Critic Pauses In Hi...
- White Noise
Ernest Hilbert Poems
Ecstasy Of St. Teresa
I listened to Bach for eight hours After she left into the snow, Disappointed with my library
On The Twenty-Fifth Anniversary Of John ...
On a step behind the Holiday Inn, Two Russians roamed up, bummed a cigarette, While a third snuck up, struck me from behind. I sprawled to asphalt. Then the boot came in.
Surrender Of Breda
An aristocratic Dane, draped in tweed, blonde hair whisked to side, clunked a bottle of whiskey down on the desk, waved his hand easily into the smoky air as if shooing a desert fly: “This is so vulgar. It really is, ” meaning the Brahms Festival Overture, and the light for one small moment over the library glinted into the window. “The ocean will never cease to give us pleasure, Doctor.” She posed on wet rocks against a distant storm; he stood beside a yawl overturned beneath the seawall and complained: “My friends, they either disappoint me or compel me to jealousy.”
Corned Beef Hash And Two Eggs Over Easy,...
I’m battered all to hell. You should see me. I’m in the corner of a bright diner, The very one from Suzanne Vega’s song. Every time I limp to the john to pee
Meet And Greet
For some, ardent reading forms its own end, A drawn-out, lonely, unpaid profession. Even as pastime, it’s viewed as creepy. The mind greets ghosts, and no good to pretend
Gold Rush (On Disposing Of An Old Sofa)
What natural or man-made wonders will we Prospect in those crevasses and gullies, Boulders blotted blue as soggy lilacs With lichen and cloud shadow? It’s all free:
My friends quietly dropped out of high school. It seemed each week we had parties for some guy Going into jail or getting released. It’s not that anyone thought this was cool,
She Who Was The Helmet-Maker’s Beautiful...
All that was shaped will be sunk clear of chance, And all printed given out to be sung. Felon, old friend, death will not travel long.
Coronation Of Sesostris
Shrine of lunar hulls Swayed to mist in river’s hold Or solar reservoir dried To yolk and pollen,
View Of Dordrecht
Fixed light overhead Delivered to chiseled distance Of steeple and rigged mast,
Bosch’s demons, roosting against The luminous sky of the Low Countries, Emerge shaped of stone or dirty light, Perched atop the haywain blowing
Disasters Of War
It is September, and I lunch in rain. I do not like your city. I do not Welcome the filling sky as I once could.
Ulysses Deriding Polyphemus
Smiling sadly with beer beneath canopy Of canaried gold and song, so much cold wind Gone out into dark cove of oar and sail,
He arrived in the city and before long it began to snow. The smell of spices and meats fried in oils Filled the cold. Tire-grey drifts glutted the streets. Snow flurried like thick wet motes of ash.
He arrived in the city and before long it began to snow.
The smell of spices and meats fried in oils
Filled the cold. Tire-grey drifts glutted the streets.
Snow flurried like thick wet motes of ash.
He wanted to write a script, a movie script about life in the city,
But first he would have to live in the city and think
About writing a script there. He went to the Salvation Army
And found an old suit, navy blue with pinstripes,