Read Online Collected Earlier Poems by Anthony Hecht - Free Book Online
Authors: Anthony Hecht
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congress swarm
In futile search of apple blossoms can
Testify to a sweetness such as man
Fears in his freezing heart, yet it could warm
Winter away, and redden the cheek with shame.
There was a gentleman of severest taste
Who won from wickedness by consummate strife
A sensibility suitable to his chaste
Formula. He found the world too lavish.
Temptation was his constant, intimate foe,
Constantly to be overcome by force, and so
His formula (fearing lest the world ravish
His senses) applied the rigors of art to life.
But in recurrent dreams saw himself dead,
Mourned by chrysanthemums that walked about,
Each bending over him its massive head
And weeping on him such sweet tender tears
That as each drop spattered upon his limbs
Green plant life blossomed in that place. For hymns
Marking his mean demise, his frigid ears
Perceived the belch of frogs, low and devout.
The problem is not simple. In Guadeloupe
The fer-de-lance displays his ugly trait
Deep in the sweaty undergrowth where droop
Pears of a kind not tasted, where depend
Strange apples, in the shade of
Les Mamelles
.
The place is neither Paradise nor Hell,
But of their divers attributes a blend:
It is man’s brief and natural estate.
SAMUEL SEWALL
Samuel Sewall, in a world of wigs,
Flouted opinion in his personal hair;
For foppery he gave not any figs,
But in his right and honor took the air.
Thus in his naked style, though well attired,
He went forth in the city, or paid court
To Madam Winthrop, whom he much admired,
Most godly, but yet liberal with the port.
And all the town admired for two full years
His excellent address, his gifts of fruit,
Her gracious ways and delicate white ears,
And held the course of nature absolute.
But yet she bade him suffer a peruke,
“That One be not distinguished from the All”;
Delivered of herself this stern rebuke
Framed in the resonant language of St. Paul.
“Madam,” he answered her, “I have a Friend
Furnishes me with hair out of His strength,
And He requires only I attend
Unto His charity and to its length.”
And all the town was witness to his trust:
On Monday he walked out with the Widow Gibbs,
A pious lady of charm and notable bust,
Whose heart beat tolerably beneath her ribs.
On Saturday he wrote proposing marriage,
And closed, imploring that she be not cruel,
“Your favorable answer will oblige,
Madam, your humble servant, Samuel Sewall.”
DRINKING SONG
A toast to that lady over the fireplace
Who wears a snood of pearls. Her eyes are turned
Away from the posterity that loosed
Drunken invaders to the living room,
Toppled the convent bell-tower, and burned
The sniper-ridden outhouses. The face
Of Beatrice d’Este, reproduced
In color, offers a profile to this dark,
Hand-carved interior. High German gloom
Flinches before our boots upon the desk
Where the
Ortsgruppenführer
used to park
His sovereign person. Not a week ago
The women of this house went down among
The stacked-up kindling wood, the picturesque,
Darkening etchings of Vesuvius,
Piled mattresses upon themselves, and shook,
And prayed to God in their guttural native tongue
For mercy, forgiveness, and the death of us.
We are indeed diminished.
We are twelve.
But have recaptured a sufficiency
Of France’s cognac; and it shall be well,
Given sufficient time, if we can down
Half of it, being as we are, reduced.
Five dead in the pasture, yet they loom
As thirstily as ever. Are recalled
By daring wagers to this living room:
“I’ll be around to leak over your grave.”
And
Durendal
, my only
Durendal
,
Thou hast preserved me better than a sword;
Rest in the enemy umbrella stand
While that I measure out another drink.
I am beholden to thee, by this hand,
This measuring hand. We are beholden all.
A POEM FOR JULIA
Held in her hand of “almost flawless skin”
A small sprig of Sweet William as a
In futile search of apple blossoms can
Testify to a sweetness such as man
Fears in his freezing heart, yet it could warm
Winter away, and redden the cheek with shame.
There was a gentleman of severest taste
Who won from wickedness by consummate strife
A sensibility suitable to his chaste
Formula. He found the world too lavish.
Temptation was his constant, intimate foe,
Constantly to be overcome by force, and so
His formula (fearing lest the world ravish
His senses) applied the rigors of art to life.
But in recurrent dreams saw himself dead,
Mourned by chrysanthemums that walked about,
Each bending over him its massive head
And weeping on him such sweet tender tears
That as each drop spattered upon his limbs
Green plant life blossomed in that place. For hymns
Marking his mean demise, his frigid ears
Perceived the belch of frogs, low and devout.
The problem is not simple. In Guadeloupe
The fer-de-lance displays his ugly trait
Deep in the sweaty undergrowth where droop
Pears of a kind not tasted, where depend
Strange apples, in the shade of
Les Mamelles
.
The place is neither Paradise nor Hell,
But of their divers attributes a blend:
It is man’s brief and natural estate.
SAMUEL SEWALL
Samuel Sewall, in a world of wigs,
Flouted opinion in his personal hair;
For foppery he gave not any figs,
But in his right and honor took the air.
Thus in his naked style, though well attired,
He went forth in the city, or paid court
To Madam Winthrop, whom he much admired,
Most godly, but yet liberal with the port.
And all the town admired for two full years
His excellent address, his gifts of fruit,
Her gracious ways and delicate white ears,
And held the course of nature absolute.
But yet she bade him suffer a peruke,
“That One be not distinguished from the All”;
Delivered of herself this stern rebuke
Framed in the resonant language of St. Paul.
“Madam,” he answered her, “I have a Friend
Furnishes me with hair out of His strength,
And He requires only I attend
Unto His charity and to its length.”
And all the town was witness to his trust:
On Monday he walked out with the Widow Gibbs,
A pious lady of charm and notable bust,
Whose heart beat tolerably beneath her ribs.
On Saturday he wrote proposing marriage,
And closed, imploring that she be not cruel,
“Your favorable answer will oblige,
Madam, your humble servant, Samuel Sewall.”
DRINKING SONG
A toast to that lady over the fireplace
Who wears a snood of pearls. Her eyes are turned
Away from the posterity that loosed
Drunken invaders to the living room,
Toppled the convent bell-tower, and burned
The sniper-ridden outhouses. The face
Of Beatrice d’Este, reproduced
In color, offers a profile to this dark,
Hand-carved interior. High German gloom
Flinches before our boots upon the desk
Where the
Ortsgruppenführer
used to park
His sovereign person. Not a week ago
The women of this house went down among
The stacked-up kindling wood, the picturesque,
Darkening etchings of Vesuvius,
Piled mattresses upon themselves, and shook,
And prayed to God in their guttural native tongue
For mercy, forgiveness, and the death of us.
We are indeed diminished.
We are twelve.
But have recaptured a sufficiency
Of France’s cognac; and it shall be well,
Given sufficient time, if we can down
Half of it, being as we are, reduced.
Five dead in the pasture, yet they loom
As thirstily as ever. Are recalled
By daring wagers to this living room:
“I’ll be around to leak over your grave.”
And
Durendal
, my only
Durendal
,
Thou hast preserved me better than a sword;
Rest in the enemy umbrella stand
While that I measure out another drink.
I am beholden to thee, by this hand,
This measuring hand. We are beholden all.
A POEM FOR JULIA
Held in her hand of “almost flawless skin”
A small sprig of Sweet William as a
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