Anthony Hecht - Collected Later Poems (2005)
This is a collection of formalist, classical poetry written by one of the masters of the poetic form in the twentieth century in America. At times using abstruse allusions that make his artistic intentions somewhat difficult to understand for the lay reader (like myself), the rhyme, meter, and his thoughts and philosophy within his poetry are all so extraordinary that the more accessible poems are some of the finest I have ever read in the English language. I have taken to partially memorizing them because they’re so edifying and beautiful.
The inscription that begins the book:
For Helen
Oh my most dear, I know the live im-
print
Of that smile of gratitude
Know it more perfectly than any book
It brims upon the world, a mood
Of love, a mode of gladness without
stint
O that I may be worthy of that look.
The typesetting isn’t working (it has indentations and such), but you get the picture. It has complex but lovely and accessible meter and rhyme.
And the book proceeds from there. Other remarkable poems are “The Transparent Man” and “Terms," in which Hecht, who could be lethally serious and often biblical, rages about sin, violence, peace, and God's first and upcoming apocalypse and asks us:
What do those distant thunderheads betide?
Nothing to do with us. Not our disgrace
That the raped corpse of a four-
teen year old,
tied With friction tape, is found
in a ditch, and a tide Of violent
crime
breaks out. Yet the world
grown Wrathful,
corrupt, once loosed a true
floodtide That
inched inside the wards where
the frail
are tied To their beds, invaded
attics,
climbed to disclose Sharks in
the nurseries,
eels on the floor, to close Over
lives
and cries and herds, and on
that tide, Which splintered
barn, cottage
and city piece-Meal, one sole
family rode
the world to peace.
Think of the glittering morn-
ing when God's peace
Flooded the heavens as it with-
drew the tide:
Sweet grasses, endless field of
such rich
peace That for long after, when
men dreamed
of peace, It seemed a place
where beast and human
grace A pastoral landscape, a
Virgilian
peace, Or scene such as Mante-
gna's masterpiece
Of kneeling shepherds. But that
dream has grown
Threadbare, improbable, and
our paupers groan While
"stockpiled warheads guaran-
tee our peace,"
And troops, red-handed, mus-
cle in
for the close. Ours is a wound
that
bleeds and will not close.
Long since we had been cau-
tioned: "Until he close
His eyes forever, mildly and in
peace,
Call no man happy." The stain
of our disgrace
Grows ominously, a malign, in-
grown
Melanoma, softly spreading its
dark tide
Fire and brimstone! He could also be wickedly funny and sentimental, and he was adept at understanding romance and heartbreak. In short, I had this at number eighteen because I love it.