By Anthony Hecht
THE VENETIAN VESPERS (1979)
"In its clear-eyed mercy towards human weak spot, Anthony Hecht's poetry is going from energy to energy. The Venetian Vespers is right now an excessive corroboration and an considerable extension of his refined, supple abilities. not anything humane is alien to him... there's a handful of brief poems which are fostered alike through attractiveness and worry. however it is the 4 lengthy poems that be sure Hecht as a poet of the widest apprehensions and comprehension, and this with no the gigantism that so haunts American poetic ambition."
--Christopher Ricks, the hot York instances booklet Review
MILLIONS of wierd SHADOWS (1977)
"The excessive artistry of Anthony Hecht has been to nurture his personal reward, and to paintings at it with the deliberateness and stability that it deserved from him... Emotional depth and formal strength have been mixed in Hecht from his beginnings... The thirty poems in hundreds of thousands of wierd Shadows are all totally written, yet numerous actually are the simplest he has released and are probably to undergo. some of the best is 'Green: An Epistle,' that is a lesson in profound, managed subjectivity and self-revelation, an actual antithesis to the opaque squalors of 'confessional' poets. virtually both awesome is 'Coming Home,' within which the poet John Clare gets a deeper interpretation than any critic has afforded him..."
--Harold Bloom, the recent Republic
THE difficult HOURS (1968)
"Anthony Hecht's first quantity of poems, A Summoning of Stones, demonstrated him as the most comprehensive of his super entire new release. His paintings was once outstanding adequate for its classical poise and magnificence, however it additionally had a weight which set it aside. on account that then his poetry has come transparent in a course no one may have predicted...He did the main tough factor of all: this such a lot fastidious and chic of poets shed each artifice and commenced to write down with absolute uncooked simplicity and directness. just a poet with a massive burden of anything to assert ever goals of taking this direction, and in basic terms an encouraged artist can carry it off. the end result right here has been the most robust and unforgettable poems at the moment being written in America,"
--Ted Hughes
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Additional info for Collected Earlier Poems
Example text
Not dust to dust but calcium to calcium, the stuff of stars, a living connection. Thin Atacama air draws astronomers with giant telescopes— visual, radio—new pathways retracing our enigmatic need to know: where we began and how, where we are going and what future will hold a mirror to our past. Cosmic archeologists say calcium, material of stars and the human body, builds us. What we search for across this desert whose secrets shiver through narrow canyons of escape. Dry earth and thin air release twin truths fourteen billion years or four decades behind us along with every story in between: m 43 m stories we resist until they part the earth and hit us where our knowing lives.
Strands of damp hair repeated their fall across lips silenced by bullets made somewhere else. The small room’s heat, lungs under siege. Walls receded, then pressed against me. Slowly, with purpose, I brought my gaze to her son’s face: jaw wrapped in strips of gauze, clean red and black around his neck. As in so many grieving homes before and since I touched the mother’s shoulder raised my camera, got my shot. We must tell the world, they insisted, when I complained I can’t keep doing this. Can’t.
Life’s meaning loosens the leather straps climbing its ankles, shifts weight from tired feet, arranges itself on a wall of worn stone: Etruscan, Roman, Greek, and shouts in solid accent: Memory, it’s your turn now. m 52 m Daddy, Do You Remember Me? Sixteen years and I can’t conjure your comforting hand curled around mine, your smell of Old Spice set off by the temperature you raised playing tennis with neighbors half your age. I can’t evoke the name of the book where you taught me to read though its black letters on red pasteboard cover still wander behind my eyes, and I remember your serial tale of Pufti and Mike, those picnics where they chewed the drumsticks clean.