Anthony Hecht

Now he has silver in him. When sometime Death shall boil down unnecessary fat To reach the nub of our identity, When in the run of crime The skull is rifled for the gold in teeth, And chemistry has eaten from the spine Superfluous life and vigor, why then he Will show a richness to be wondered at, And shall be thought a mine Whose claim and stake are stone and floral wreath. The body burns away, and burning gives Light to the eye and moisture to the lip And warmth to our desires, but it burns Whatever body lives Into extinction though it wear a plate Of armor in it: therefore do we thrive In fear of fire, in terror of the ship That carries us to fire. A soldier learns To bear the silver weight Where in his head the fire is most alive.

The work has been going forward with the greatest difficulty, chiefly because I cannot concentrate. I have no feeling about whether what I am writing is good or bad, and the whole business is totally without excitement and pleasure for me. And I am sure I know the reason. It’s that I can’t stand leaving unresolved my situation with Pat. I hear from her fairly frequently, asking when I plan to come back, and she knows that I am supposed to appear at the poetry reading in the middle of January. It is not mainly loneliness I feel, though I feel it; but I have been lonely before. It is quite frankly the feeling that nothing is really settled between us, and that in the mean time I worry about how things are going to work out. This has made my work more difficult than it has ever been before. – From a letter to his parents dated November 9, 1955, Rome. Hardly enough for me that the pail of water Alive with the wrinkling light Brings clearness home and whiter Than mind conceives the walls mature to white, Or that the washed tomatoes whose name is given To love fulfill their bowl And the Roman sea is woven Together by threading fish and made most whole. I delight in each of these, delight moreover In the dark skill of those hands Closer to wise than clever Of our blind Italian landlady who stands Her shoes fouled with the lustful blood of rabbit Lightly dispatched and dressed Fixing it to the gibbet Of the clothesline where the laundry sails to rest. These textures solicit of us our instant homage But are disparate senseless things Unless a reigning image Bring them to purpose as your presence brings The world in offering, like a chaplet worn In Aphrodite’s name, The furious unicorn Come to the virgin’s lap tethered and tame. And thus it is as you stand in this morning’s shadows Where ancient chamber pots Are grown to little meadows Of mint and parsley; surely it’s love unknots The winds for Ulysses and recalls to man A summer without cease; Sprung from the same dishpan Onion and lily work their primal peace.

I would invoke that man Who chipped for all posterity an ass (The one that Jesus rode) Out of hard stone, and set its either wing Among the wings of the most saintly clan On Chartres Cathedral, and that it might sing The praise to all who pass Of its unearthly load, Hung from its neck a harp-like instrument. I would invoke that man To aid my argument. The ass smiles on us all, Being astonished that an ass might rise To such sure eminence Not merely among asses but mankind, Simpers, almost, upon the western wall In praise of folly, who midst sow and kine, Saw with its foolish eyes Gold, Myrrh, and Frankincense Enter the stable door, against all odds. The ass smiles on us all. Our butt at last is God’s. That man is but an ass— More perfectly, that ass is but a man Who struggles to describe Our rich, contingent and substantial world In ideal signs: the dunged and pagan grass, Misted in summer, or the mother-of-pearled Home of the bachelor-clam. A cold and toothless tribe Has he for brothers, who would coldly think. That man is but an ass Who smells not his own stink. For all his abstract style Speaks not to our humanity, and shows Neither the purity Of heaven, nor the impurity beneath, And cannot see the feasted crocodile Ringed with St. Francis’ birds to pick its teeth, Nor can his thought disclose To normal intimacy, Siamese twins, the double-beasted back, For all his abstract style Utters our chiefest lack. Despite his abstract style, Pickerel will dawdle in their summer pools Lit by the flitterings Of light dashing the gusty surfaces, Or lie suspended among shades of bile And lime in fluent shift, for all he says. And all the grey-haired mules, Simple and neuter things, Will bray hosannas, blessing harp and wing. For all his abstract style, The ass will learn to sing.

Night, the fat serpent, slipped among the plants, Intent upon the apples of his eyes; A heavy bandoleer hung like a prize Around his neck, and tropical red ants Mounted his body, and he heard advance, Little by little, the thin female cries Of mortar shells. He thought of Paradise. Such is the vision that extremity grants. In the clean brightness of magnesium Flares, there were seven angels by a tree. Their hair flashed diamonds, and they made him doubt They were not really from Elysium. And his flesh opened like a peony, Red at the heart, white petals furling out.

“Dark and amusing he is, this handsome gallant, Of chamois-polished charm, Athlete and dancer of uncommon talent— Is there cause for alarm In his smooth demeanor, the proud tilt of his chin, This cavaliere servente, this Harlequin? “Gentle and kindly this other, ardent but shy, With an intelligence Who would not glory to be guided by— And would it not make sense To trust in someone so devoted, so Worshipful as this tender, pale Pierrot? “Since both of them delight, if I must choose I win a matchless mate, But by that very winning choice I lose— I pause, I hesitate, Putting decision off,” says Columbine, “And while I hesitate, they both are mine.”