Flight Among the Tombs

by Anthony Hecht

Anthony Hecht has long been regarded as one of the great modern American poets. His new work is divided into two parts. The first, "Presumptions of Death", contains a collaboration with the artist Leonard Baskin, reproducing 22 wood engravings of death in many guises to illustrate the poems. The second part, "Proust on Skates", contains all Hecht's other poems written since his last book, "The Transparent Man", published in 1990.

Genres: Poetry

Paperback

First published November 5, 1996

Reviews

[Steve · Rating 3 out of 5]

Flight Among the Tombs is not in the same league as Hecht's earlier collection, The Hard Hours, though I should probably tack on an extra star for Leonard Baskin's fantastic wood engravings which accompany the poems in the collection's first section. Flight Among the Tombs is intended as an updated Danse Macabre, with poems representing Death in a number of guises. Problem is, I found some of these "updated" guises dated (as was the case with Death, "The Mexican Revolutionary," which had me recalling Katherine Anne Porter's 1920s story, "Flowering Judas"). Overall, it just seemed like a workmanlike effort from an aging poet. Such a reading reaction really flies in the face of Harold Bloom's ridiculously overblown praise on the cover blurb, but I feel comfortable with that, since this is now the second time I've read this collection. However, there is one remarkable poem that jumped out at me, "Death the Copperplate Printer." The poems ends with this powerful and dark image of despair -- and, faintly, Faith:

Slowly I crank my winch, and the bones crack,
The skull splits open and the ribs give way.
Who, then, thinks to endure?
Confess the artistry of my attack;
Admire the fine gravure,
The trenched darks, the cross-hatching, the pale gray.

This is no metaphor. Margaret Clitherow,
A pious woman, even as she prayed
Was cheated of her breath
By a court verdict that some years ago
Ordered her pressed to death.
I'm always grateful for such human aide.

Whew! Now for (Saint) Margaret Clitherow, those were truly Hard Hours. I suppose copperplate printers are pretty much outdated now, but in this case it doesn't matter, since the language leaps over that potential complaint. Unfortunately this great poem had no company in this collection.

[Jacob Moose]

Death the Hypocrite

You claim to loathe me, yet everything you prize
Brings you within the reach of my embrace.
I see right through you though I have no eyes;
You fail to know me even face to face.

Your kiss, your car, cocktail and cigarette,
Your lecheries in fancy and in fact,
Unkindnesses you manage to forget,
Are ritual prologue to the final act

And certain curtain call. Nickels and dimes
Are but the cold coin of a realm that's mine.
I'm the acute accountant of your crimes
As of your real estate. Bristlecone pine,

Whose close-ringed chronicles mock your regimen
Of jogging, vitamins, and your strange desire
To disregard your assigned three-score and ten
Yields to my absolute instrument of fire.

You know me, friend, as Faustus, Baudelaire,
Boredom, Self-Hatred, and, still more, Self-Love.
Hypocrite lecteur, mon semblable, mon frère,
Acknowledge me. I fit you like a glove.

[James Passaro · Rating 4 out of 5]

The poems on the personification of death along with the woodcut prints were absolutely amazing. I also loved the poem called Sisters about the nuns. This was a very accessible and enjoyable collection of poems.

[Walter · Rating 3 out of 5]

This guy is funny. His poems are witty and intelligent. They almost always utilize rhyme schemes. This book deals primarily with poems about death, blending humor with gravity.