Jack Gilbert Poems
|3.||Poetry Is A Kind Of Lying||4/15/2015|
|4.||Summer At Blue Creek, North Carolina||5/4/2012|
|7.||Horses At Midnight Without A Moon||5/4/2012|
|8.||Failing And Flying||5/4/2012|
|9.||A Brief For The Defense||5/4/2012|
|10.||Recovering Amid The Farms||1/13/2003|
|11.||In Dispraise Of Poetry||1/13/2003|
|12.||Searching For Pittsburgh||1/13/2003|
|14.||Portrait Number Five: Against A New York Summer||1/1/2004|
|16.||Tear It Down||1/13/2003|
|17.||The Abnormal Is Not Courage||1/13/2003|
|18.||The Great Fires||1/13/2003|
|19.||The Forgotten Dialect Of The Heart||1/13/2003|
Comments about Jack Gilbert
Tear It Down
We find out the heart only by dismantling what
the heart knows. By redefining the morning,
we find a morning that comes just after darkness.
We can break through marriage into marriage.
By insisting on love we spoil it, get beyond
affection and wade mouth-deep into love.
We must unlearn the constellations to see the stars.
But going back toward childhood will not help.
The village is not better than Pittsburgh.
Only Pittsburgh is more than Pittsburgh.
Rome is better than Rome in the same way the sound
of raccoon tongues licking the inside walls ...
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