I Imagine the Gods

Jack Gilbert

Every mention of the poet Jack Gilbert usually alludes to his elusiveness, his ‘distance’ from the public eye. His poetry reflects this aversion to being subjected constantly to the ‘gaze’. The ‘feral’ heart seeks solitude, and a freedom that the pressures and trappings of a public persona do not quite allow. And so it is that Jack Gilbert lived much of his life away from fame, choosing paths filled with spontaneity and ‘the heft of (these) days’.

“His obituary in The New York Times called him “Off the Literary Grid” in its headline and said “he was famous for eschewing fame”; his sometime partner, the poet Linda Gregg, told The Paris Review he “never cared if he was poor or had to sleep on a park bench.” But Gilbert’s fans sometimes rue that his commitment to a free, unconstrained, and often-impoverished lifestyle helped obscure what legacy he might have had.”

- From “The 'Stubborn Gladness' of Elizabeth Gilbert's Favorite Poet”, Joe Fassler, The Atlantic.

I found the lines shared at the beginning of this post, jotted down in an old notebook from more than 10 years ago; lines I wrote down when I was studying undergrad literature. I went back to this ‘I want’ poem (those are my favourite), and I share it with you today.

Almost every poet I’ve admired has an "I want” or “I want to” poem (or some variation of the theme). I find that impulse very interesting, not a desire to fly so much as an argument with the real. Oftentimes, the artistic vision breaks free, and turns, even if for a few moments towards an ideal of aesthetic harmony with nature. (I wonder if ‘Grecian Urn’ could come under this too). Gilbert’s imagined conversation with the gods is a subversion and quietly ironic take on this theme. He rejects fantastical visions of success, fame and wisdom, choosing instead to be chafed by the raw edges of a simple life. He chooses hunger, frugal living, the ‘too young’ flush of unexpected desire, the fervent fire of last love, and failure. With fingers of verse he digs into the wet, dirty topsoil of survival, and unpolished existence. It is a simple, hard hitting piece of writing that is filled with a commitment to convey with integrity, a most basic desire, and intuitive sense of being at home in a space. Of course, this is not drab, and there is a definite undercurrent of romance, but, among his poems, it stands out for me as embodying the kind of life the poet lived, and envisioned as ideal.

P.S. I suspect that this renewed tryst with Gilbert is not over. I have curated his Failing and Flying on Poetly before. Have a look.

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