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by Anthony Hecht |

The Transparent Man

 I'm mighty glad to see you, Mrs.
Curtis, And thank you very kindly for this visit-- Especially now when all the others here Are having holiday visitors, and I feel A little conspicuous and in the way.
It's mainly because of Thanksgiving.
All these mothers And wives and husbands gaze at me soulfully And feel they should break up their box of chocolates For a donation, or hand me a chunk of fruitcake.
What they don't understand and never guess Is that it's better for me without a family; It's a great blessing.
Though I mean no harm.
And as for visitors, why, I have you, All cheerful, brisk and punctual every Sunday, Like church, even if the aisles smell of phenol.
And you always bring even better gifts than any On your book-trolley.
Though they mean only good, Families can become a sort of burden.
I've only got my father, and he won't come, Poor man, because it would be too much for him.
And for me, too, so it's best the way it is.
He knows, you see, that I will predecease him, Which is hard enough.
It would take a callous man To come and stand around and watch me failing.
(Now don't you fuss; we both know the plain facts.
) But for him it's even harder.
He loved my mother.
They say she looked like me; I suppose she may have.
Or rather, as I grew older I came to look More and more like she must one time have looked, And so the prospect for my father now Of losing me is like having to lose her twice.
I know he frets about me.
Dr.
Frazer Tells me he phones in every single day, Hoping that things will take a turn for the better.
But with leukemia things don't improve.
It's like a sort of blizzard in the bloodstream, A deep, severe, unseasonable winter, Burying everything.
The white blood cells Multiply crazily and storm around, Out of control.
The chemotherapy Hasn't helped much, and it makes my hair fall out.
I know I look a sight, but I don't care.
I care about fewer things; I'm more selective.
It's got so I can't even bring myself To read through any of your books these days.
It's partly weariness, and partly the fact That I seem not to care much about the endings, How things work out, or whether they even do.
What I do instead is sit here by this window And look out at the trees across the way.
You wouldn't think that was much, but let me tell you, It keeps me quite intent and occupied.
Now all the leaves are down, you can see the spare, Delicate structures of the sycamores, The fine articulation of the beeches.
I have sat here for days studying them, And I have only just begun to see What it is that they resemble.
One by one, They stand there like magnificent enlargements Of the vascular system of the human brain.
I see them there like huge discarnate minds, Lost in their meditative silences.
The trunks, branches and twigs compose the vessels That feed and nourish vast immortal thoughts.
So I've assigned them names.
There, near the path, Is the great brain of Beethoven, and Kepler Haunts the wide spaces of that mountain ash.
This view, you see, has become my Hall of Fame, It came to me one day when I remembered Mary Beth Finley who used to play with me When we were girls.
One year her parents gave her A birthday toy called "The Transparent Man.
" It was made of plastic, with different colored organs, And the circulatory system all mapped out In rivers of red and blue.
She'd ask me over And the two of us would sit and study him Together, and do a powerful lot of giggling.
I figure he's most likely the only man Either of us would ever get to know Intimately, because Mary Beth became A Sister of Mercy when she was old enough.
She must be thirty-one; she was a year Older than I, and about four inches taller.
I used to envy both those advantages Back in those days.
Anyway, I was struck Right from the start by the sea-weed intricacy, The fine-haired, silken-threaded filiations That wove, like Belgian lace, throughout the head.
But this last week it seems I have found myself Looking beyond, or through, individual trees At the dense, clustered woodland just behind them, Where those great, nameless crowds patiently stand.
It's become a sort of complex, ultimate puzzle And keeps me fascinated.
My eyes are twenty-twenty, Or used to be, but of course I can't unravel The tousled snarl of intersecting limbs, That mackled, cinder grayness.
It's a riddle Beyond the eye's solution.
Impenetrable.
If there is order in all that anarchy Of granite mezzotint, that wilderness, It takes a better eye than mine to see it.
It set me on to wondering how to deal With such a thickness of particulars, Deal with it faithfully, you understand, Without blurring the issue.
Of course I know That within a month the sleeving snows will come With cold, selective emphases, with massings And arbitrary contrasts, rendering things Deceptively simple, thickening the twigs To frosty veins, bestowing epaulets And decorations on every birch and aspen.
And the eye, self-satisfied, will be misled, Thinking the puzzle solved, supposing at last It can look forth and comprehend the world.
That's when you have to really watch yourself.
So I hope that you won't think me plain ungrateful For not selecting one of your fine books, And I take it very kindly that you came And sat here and let me rattle on this way.


by Anthony Hecht |

The End Of The Weekend

 A dying firelight slides along the quirt
Of the cast iron cowboy where he leans
Against my father's books.
The lariat Whirls into darkness.
My girl in skin tight jeans Fingers a page of Captain Marriat Inviting insolent shadows to her shirt.
We rise together to the second floor.
Outside, across the lake, an endless wind Whips against the headstones of the dead and wails In the trees for all who have and have not sinned.
She rubs against me and I feel her nails.
Although we are alone, I lock the door.
The eventual shapes of all our formless prayers: This dark, this cabin of loose imaginings, Wind, lip, lake, everything awaits The slow unloosening of her underthings And then the noise.
Something is dropped.
It grates against the attic beams.
I climb the stairs Armed with a belt.
A long magnesium shaft Of moonlight from the dormer cuts a path Among the shattered skeletons of mice.
A great black presence beats its wings in wrath.
Above the boneyard burn its golden eyes.
Some small grey fur is pulsing in its grip.


by Anthony Hecht |

More Light! More Light!

 For Heinrich Blucher and Hannah Arendt
Composed in the Tower before his execution
These moving verses, and being brought at that time
Painfully to the stake, submitted, declaring thus:
"I implore my God to witness that I have made no crime.
" Nor was he forsaken of courage, but the death was horrible, The sack of gunpowder failing to ignite.
His legs were blistered sticks on which the black sap Bubbled and burst as he howled for the Kindly Light.
And that was but one, and by no means one of he worst; Permitted at least his pitiful dignity; And such as were by made prayers in the name of Christ, That shall judge all men, for his soul's tranquility.
We move now to outside a German wood.
Three men are there commanded to dig a hole In which the two Jews are ordered to lie down And be buried alive by the third, who is a Pole.
Not light from the shrine at Weimar beyond the hill Nor light from heaven appeared.
But he did refuse.
A Luger settled back deeply in its glove.
He was ordered to change places with the Jews.
Much casual death had drained away their souls.
The thick dirt mounted toward the quivering chin.
When only the head was exposed the order came To dig him out again and to get back in.
No light, no light in the blue Polish eye.
When he finished a riding boot packed down the earth.
The Luger hovered lightly in its glove.
He was shot in the belly and in three hours bled to death.
No prayers or incense rose up in those hours Which grew to be years, and every day came mute Ghosts from the ovens, sifting through crisp air, And settled upon his eyes in a black soot.


by Anthony Hecht |

Lizards And Snakes

 On the summer road that ran by our front porch
 Lizards and snakes came out to sun.
It was hot as a stove out there, enough to scorch A buzzard's foot.
Still, it was fun To lie in the dust and spy on them.
Near but remote, They snoozed in the carriage ruts, a smile In the set of the jaw, a fierce pulse in the throat Working away like Jack Doyle's after he'd run the mile.
Aunt Martha had an unfair prejudice Against them (as well as being cold Toward bats.
) She was pretty inflexible in this, Being a spinster and all, and old.
So we used to slip them into her knitting box.
In the evening she'd bring in things to mend And a nice surprise would slide out from under the socks.
It broadened her life, as Joe said.
Joe was my friend.
But we never did it again after the day Of the big wind when you could hear the trees Creak like rocking chairs.
She was looking away Off, and kept saying, "Sweet Jesus, please Don't let him near me.
He's as like as twins.
He can crack us like lice with his fingernail.
I can see him plain as a pikestaff.
Look how he grins And swings the scaly horror of his folded tail.
"


by Anthony Hecht |

The Dover Bitch: A Criticism Of Life

 So there stood Matthew Arnold and this girl
With the cliffs of England crumbling away behind them,
And he said to her, "Try to be true to me,
And I'll do the same for you, for things are bad
All over, etc.
, etc.
" Well now, I knew this girl.
It's true she had read Sophocles in a fairly good translation And caught that bitter allusion to the sea, But all the time he was talking she had in mind the notion of what his whiskers would feel like On the back of her neck.
She told me later on That after a while she got to looking out At the lights across the channel, and really felt sad, Thinking of all the wine and enormous beds And blandishments in French and the perfumes.
And then she got really angry.
To have been brought All the way down from London, and then be addressed As sort of a mournful cosmic last resort Is really tough on a girl, and she was pretty.
Anyway, she watched him pace the room and finger his watch-chain and seem to sweat a bit, And then she said one or two unprintable things.
But you mustn't judge her by that.
What I mean to say is, She's really all right.
I still see her once in a while And she always treats me right.
We have a drink And I give her a good time, and perhaps it's a year Before I see her again, but there she is, Running to fat, but dependable as they come, And sometimes I bring her a bottle of Nuit d'Amour.
[Ed.
note: See Matthew Arnold's poem "Dover Beach"]


by Anthony Hecht |

Chorus From Oedipus At Colonos

 What is unwisdom but the lusting after
Longevity: to be old and full of days!
For the vast and unremitting tide of years
Casts up to view more sorrowful things than joyful;
And as for pleasures, once beyond our prime,
They all drift out of reach, they are washed away.
And the same gaunt bailiff calls upon us all.
Summoning into Darkness, to those wards Where is no music, dance, or marriage hymn That soothes or gladdens.
To the tenements of Death.
Not to be born is, past all yearning, best.
And second best is, having seen the light.
To return at once to deep oblivion.
When youth has gone, and the baseless dreams of youth, What misery does not then jostle man's elbow, Join him as a companion, share his bread? Betrayal, envy, calumny and bloodshed Move in on him, and finally Old Age-- Infirm, despised Old Age--joins in his ruin, The crowning taunt of his indignities.
So is it with that man, not just with me.
He seems like a frail jetty facing North Whose pilings the waves batter from all quarters; From where the sun comes up, from where it sets, From freezing boreal regions, from below, A whole winter of miseries now assails him, Thrashes his sides and breaks over his head.


by Anthony Hecht |

A Letter

 I have been wondering
 What you are thinking about, and by now suppose
 It is certainly not me.
But the crocus is up, and the lark, and the blundering Blood knows what it knows.
It talks to itself all night, like a sliding moonlit sea.
Of course, it is talking of you.
At dawn, where the ocean has netted its catch of lights, The sun plants one lithe foot On that spill of mirrors, but the blood goes worming through Its warm Arabian nights, Naming your pounding name again in the dark heart-root.
Who shall, of course, be nameless.
Anyway, I should want you to know I have done my best, As I'm sure you have, too.
Others are bound to us, the gentle and blameless Whose names are not confessed In the ceaseless palaver.
My dearest, the clear unquaried blue Of those depths is all but blinding.
You may remember that once you brought my boys Two little woolly birds.
Yesterday the older one asked for you upon finding Your thrush among his toys.
And the tides welled about me, and I could find no words.
There is not much else to tell.
One tries one's best to continue as before, Doing some little good.
But I would have you know that all is not well With a man dead set to ignore The endless repetitions of his own murmurous blood.


by Anthony Hecht |

Sarabande On Attaining The Age Of Seventy-Seven

 The harbingers are come.
See, see their mark; White is their colour; and behold my head.
-- George Herbert Long gone the smoke-and-pepper childhood smell Of the smoldering immolation of the year, Leaf-strewn in scattered grandeur where it fell, Golden and poxed with frost, tarnished and sere.
And I myself have whitened in the weathers Of heaped-up Januaries as they bequeath The annual rings and wrongs that wring my withers, Sober my thoughts, and undermine my teeth.
The dramatis personae of our lives Dwindle and wizen; familiar boyhood shames, The tribulations one somehow survives, Rise smokily from propitiatory flames Of our forgetfulness until we find It becomes strangely easy to forgive Even ourselves with this clouding of the mind, This cinerous blur and smudge in which we live.
A turn, a glide, a quarter turn and bow, The stately dance advances; these are airs Bone-deep and numbing as I should know by now, Diminishing the cast, like musical chairs.


by Anthony Hecht |

Saul And David

 It was a villainous spirit, snub-nosed, foul
Of breath, thick-taloned and malevolent,
That squatted within him wheresoever he went
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
And possessed the soul of Saul.
There was no peace on pillow or on throne.
In dreams the toothless, dwarfed, and squinny-eyed Started a joyful rumor that he had died .
.
.
.
.
.
.
Unfriended and alone.
The doctors were confounded.
In his distress, he Put aside arrogant ways and condescended To seek among the flocks where they were tended .
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By the youngest son of Jesse, A shepherd boy, but goodly to look upon, Unnoticed but God-favored, sturdy of limb As Michelangelo later imagined him, .
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Comely even in his frown.
Shall a mere shepherd provide the cure of kings? Heaven itself delights in ironies such As this, in which a boy's fingers would touch .
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Pythagorean strings And by a modal artistry assemble The very Sons of Morning, the ranked and choired Heavens in sweet laudation of the Lord, .
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And make Saul cease to tremble.


by Anthony Hecht |

Curriculum Vitae

 1992

1) I was born in a Free City, near the North Sea.
2) In the year of my birth, money was shredded into confetti.
A loaf of bread cost a million marks.
Of course I do not remember this.
3) Parents and grandparents hovered around me.
The world I lived in had a soft voice and no claws.
4) A cornucopia filled with treats took me into a building with bells.
A wide-bosomed teacher took me in.
5) At home the bookshelves connected heaven and earth.
6) On Sundays the city child waded through pinecones and primrose marshes, a short train ride away.
7) My country was struck by history more deadly than earthquakes or hurricanes.
8) My father was busy eluding the monsters.
My mother told me the walls had ears.
I learned the burden of secrets.
9) I moved into the too bright days, the too dark nights of adolescence.
10) Two parents, two daughters, we followed the sun and the moon across the ocean.
My grandparents stayed behind in darkness.
11) In the new language everyone spoke too fast.
Eventually I caught up with them.
12) When I met you, the new language became the language of love.
13) The death of the mother hurt the daughter into poetry.
The daughter became a mother of daughters.
14) Ordinary life: the plenty and thick of it.
Knots tying threads to everywhere.
The past pushed away, the future left unimagined for the sake of the glorious, difficult, passionate present.
15) Years and years of this.
16) The children no longer children.
An old man's pain, an old man's loneliness.
17) And then my father too disappeared.
18) I tried to go home again.
I stood at the door to my childhood, but it was closed to the public.
19) One day, on a crowded elevator, everyone's face was younger than mine.
20) So far, so good.
The brilliant days and nights are breathless in their hurry.
We follow, you and I.