Jack Gilbert(Jack Gilbert, February 18, 1925 – November 13, 2012).
Contemporary American poet. Born in Pittsburgh in 1925, he lost his father at an early age and dropped out of high school to earn a living. After a mistake, he went to the University of Pittsburgh and fell in love with poetry. He has roamed and lived in seclusion all over the world, has experienced many loves, and has taught at several universities. He is the author of five poetry collections, including "Dangerous Landscape", "Monolith", "Fire", "Rejection of Heaven" and "Unparalleled Dance". In March 2012, "The Complete Works of Poems" was published, and he died in November of the same year. Gilbert's strength lies in his rarity, especially in his current age: he stands as a poet outside of his own time, practicing a pure poetics in an increasingly noisy world. His writings exude humanity and awe, bringing with it an intellect that is usually lacking in contemporary poetry. 
Hats off to Wang Wei
An unfamiliar woman sleeps in a bed.
The other side. Her faint breath was like a secret.
Live in her. Four years ago in California.
In three days they got to know each other. Then.
She was engaged and later married. At the moment, winter.
The last leaves of Massachusetts are being blown off.
Boston and Maine passed silently at two o'clock, and the call of the night rejoiced like a trombone, leaving him in the silence thereafter. She cried yesterday when they were walking in the woods, but she didn't want to.
Talk about it. Her pain will be explained, but she will remain unknown. Come what may.
He will never find her again. Although that hustle and bustle and sin.
They may be wild in the body and inward.
noise obtained, but they will still be.
A mystery, face each other, face yourself.
Note: Wang Wei (王伟), whose name is Maha, was a poet of the Tang Dynasty in China. Jack Gilbert liked Wang Wei's poems and longed for his seclusion.
Look for Pittsburgh
The fox moved slightly, blindly through me, at night, between the liver and the stomach. When I came to the heart, I hesitated. Think about it, and walk around it.
Trying to escape the tenderness of our violent world.
Go deeper and look for Pittsburgh inside me.
Remnants left behind. Rusty factories, behemoths, creeping along three rivers. Their majesty.
The gravel alley where we used to play every night.
Dyed pink by the hell that always towers to the sky, it seems that ** and the Holy Father are still shaping.
This earthly world. The locomotive drove through the cold rain, majestic and savage, full of energy. Flood.
Day and night flow through this waist binding.
Ninety bridges in the city. Mighty shoulders, smooth legs, stubborn and majestic, unyielding.
All the clenching with the rush, the vast sucking and the ingrained elegance.
A city of bricks and rotting wood. The bearing of a steer and a king.
The original Pittsburgh. Winter is spoken month after month.
Death. Beauty drives us like brutality.
Our spirits are forged in this wilderness, our minds.
Shaped by the heart. Thus a United States was created.
The fox watched me build my Pittsburgh again and again.
Those afternoons in the Parc de la Petchamont in Paris. On the Greek island.
A wilderness full of stones. Sometimes, in bed with a woman.
In their gentle country. Now the fox will live with us.
in a dilapidated house. My tomatoes are ripe in the weeds.
and the sound of water. In this happy place created by my serious heart.
Adults
The sea sleeps peacefully in the dark.
Wet and naked. The half-moon looms in the sky.
It's as if someone once walked through a door.
Carrying the light on his back. The woman thought.
How did they live next to each other?
Many years, while she belonged to other people men.
He moved towards her, knowing he was going to be destroyed.
What happens when they don't know each other.
Meditation No. 11: Re-reading Blake
I remember the house I shared with them.
Laughter, eternal talk about love.
The abundant energy of their friends.
and the sound of late at night.
The sound of the whipping. Urges and screams.
Lying next to each other like dead people.
Get away with it
We are already living in a real paradise.
Horses on an empty summer street.
I ate hot sausages that I couldn't afford myself, in the snow and ice in Munich, tears flowed. We can.
Recall. A child waits in the field.
The last flying ball of the year. The sky was so dark, and the black lined the heavens.
The voice was faintly calling towards dinner, faintly in the distance.
I stood with my hands outstretched, staring at it.
Bends upwards and begins to go down again, turning white.
At the last minute. Hand down. Bloom.
Measure the tiger
A disc of chains. Fans of beef are piled on top of the truck.
Buffalo dragging teak outside Mandalay.
in the mud of the river. Lord in the Byzantine dome.
A huge crane overhead carries steel plates.
Through the dim light and roar, heading.
Giant scissors that cut three-quarters of an inch of sheet metal and slammed them down. The weight of the mind.
The beams and pillars of the spirit are broken and overflow.
Melt of the heart. A car-sized, red-hot steel ingot.
Rolling out of the rolling mill, brighter metal in the dark.
Shedding red slag. Below the Bennon Gahira River, the night shines in its belly. Silence, except.
Machinery rattles deeper into us. You still will.
Love, people say. Gotta give it time. I'm with time.
Running out day by day. Day after day, uneventful.
What they call real life is made up of an eight-inch measuring instrument.
The novelty swaggers around as if it were significant.
Sarcasm, neatness and rhyme pretend to be poetry.
I want to go back to the time when Michiko just passed away-
I cried in the trees every day. I want to go back to that reality.
Back to that great pain, live so vividly.
Note: Henry Lehmann explains: The "tiger" here refers to the poem "Tiger" by the English poet William Black. Gilbert's poem focuses on the power of life: life, when truly alive, should be like a tiger, immeasurable.
Poetry is a lie
Poetry is a lie, out of necessity. Beneficial to poets.
Or beauty. But also because.
This is the only way to tell the truth.
Those who refused to pretend were to be admired, just as those who were not willing to bluff, but they were not allowed.
Even if you say so much.
Degas said: He doesn't paint.
What he sees, what he paints.
Make it so that they can see it.
The things he has.
Naked, except for jewelry
And," she said, "you must not."
Let's talk about ecstasy. It's loneliness. ”
The woman walked around, picking it up.
Her shoes and satin. "You said you loved me," he said
The man said. "We lie," she said, grooming her hair, naked, except.
Jewelry. "We try to believe. ”
You can't do anything about joy," he said, lamenting and crying. "In the dream," she said, we pretended to ourselves that we were stroking.
The heart lies to itself because it has to be like that. ”
The grey walnut tree of Juniper Castle
I call this tree a gray walnut tree (I don't think.
It is) so that I can talk about the rain.
How different the trees around me are.
It made me think about how language can be fickle. Keats.
Blanks are often left on the manuscript in order to keep up.
His passion, blank space has its own appropriate words to patronize.
We use them indirectly. Just like we do mechanically.
Add a little illusion to the dream that is dying away.
There are so many words at the same time. We say, I love you", when we search.
The language that can be heard – it allows us to talk.
How the poplar trees over there are in the drizzle.
Swaying, and this one by the window.
How to gather the raindrops, and let them.
Falling in bundles. Just as my heart sometimes sings, and other times misses. Sometimes it's quiet.
While the rest of the time is quiet and powerful.
Note: Fort Juniper is a house built by American poet Robert Francis (1901-1987) in Amherst, Massachusetts, in 1940; Jack Gilbert lived here as a poet-in-residence from 1990 to 1993.
Painting on Plato's wall
People walking in a bright square.
The shadow behind them is not just.
Cracks in the sun. Just like goodness.
It is not the absence of evil.
Goodness is a victory. Love.
And so it is. Love is not us.
The part that is born with, with.
Grow and flourish a little, then wither. We piece together love.
From the parts of our machinery, until suddenly there is one that has never been before.
Visions that existed. It's there, unexplainable. The woman and ours.
Desire inexplicably turned into brandy.
Athena's little owl——
It was filled with a mournful cry.
Surrounded by an old villa on the hill.
Dark. Just like a man maybe.
I am turned into someone else, when.
I lived a little happy life there.
With the lady's gentle dying.
Liu Xiangyang |Translate.