Biography of Ernest Hilbert
Ernest Hilbert’s poetry has appeared in The New Republic, American Poet, Boston Review, Poetry Daily, LIT, Pleiades, McSweeney’s, The American Scholar, Verse, The New Formalist, Volt, and Fence. He is the editor of the Contemporary Poetry Review. He has written reviews and essays for a variety of publications, including The New York Sun, Scribner’s American Writers series, and the Academy of American Poets. Hilbert received his doctorate in English Literature from Oxford University, where he earlier completed a Master’s Degree and edited the Oxford Quarterly. He was the poetry editor of Random House's online magazine Bold Type for many years and later edited the magazine nowCulture. As a librettist, he is a frequent collaborator with the composer Daniel Felsenfeld. He is an agent and auction buyer for Bauman Rare Books, the largest antiquarian and first edition dealer in North America.
Ernest Hilbert Poems
Ecstasy Of St. Teresa
I listened to Bach for eight hours After she left into the snow, Disappointed with my library
Standing Female Nude
Scalpel glitter— Glitter of origin, sleep Glitter of oily flag and dreck set alight
Elegy For A Vanquished Pineapple
Warlord Pineapple, most intimidating Of fruits, you squat magnificently there On the counter like a Soviet tank Or sea mine, stiff as a legionnaire and
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.
Did Not Create Evil
What is brought before the Pontiff? It seems nothing at all: Head, foot, enough to be human Let them sting for hours, exquisite lice, oceaned wound
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
Study Of Clouds
A man seen nodding slowly at a desk, His shirt gone to ripples and shadow stain, Half dreaming that blank moment of the risk He takes shielding himself from the rain
Though what remains is less than what was sought, Less contained in the round of day and sea, It is more refrain than chorus, no verse, Lost din where words fell clear, short of a thought.
Memoria In Aeternum
Introit Sunken arias, weathered arras, noon Pyre of being alone with a bottle
Diana In The Winter Wind
Strict tincture, Precision scrolled Against tableau of gliding leaves— Turn photograph
View Of Dordrecht
Fixed light overhead Delivered to chiseled distance Of steeple and rigged mast,
Triumph Of Death
Something emerged against the horizon Then drew away again. She lifted The Metamorphoses And read. Nothing changed. She reclined In the sunshine: those were the best days of my life—
Bosch’s demons, roosting against The luminous sky of the Low Countries, Emerge shaped of stone or dirty light, Perched atop the haywain blowing
The Sin Originates Them
“One morning I found that if I held ear
To speaker, I could detect gulls screeching
Distantly behind Debussy’s Lent,
Mélancolique et doux.” This hour, with sun’s
Frozen architecture off Manhattan,
Ice of moments pursuing light beyond
Origin of day and those cries—woke holding her
Hand as she dreamed alone under a sky.