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This Guy Walked into the Dover Beach Starbuck's Sophocles long ago Heard it on the Aegean, and it brought Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow Of human misery; we Find also in the sound a thought, Hearing it by this distant northern sea. Matthew Arnold Dover Beach Thinking of all the wine and enormous beds And blandishments in French and the perfumes. Anthony Hecht Dover Bitch And said, “He’s dead.” I had seen the obituary, And knew for fact that he was gone. The odor of coffee permeated us. The blue sky back-dropped it in. Six customers consumed blocks of latte religion- all cellular connections humming. Nanny-talk, lovers (of late) titillating, while three in black with face rings murdered napkins. The Suit WiFi’s the web. His cell 'Ode to Joy’s' us. Suede. It is still chique. I see - I think that was the point of "Anthony Hecht is dead." As if someone stole the Mona Lisa from - “Put it back, put it back,” they screamed. In her absence they yammer on. The poets nail him to the cross. But he will not be held there by nails. Skim milk steam rising Rising like Christ from The Tomb There in the light on a Thursday afternoon. Illness took him home to Mr. Arnold's poodle pisses on a tire; steaming, the big black Cadillac backs out, (the cardboard liner protects him from the heat), heads down toward the beach. No one is so distraught; and they go on with their lives. Dover. An eye on France. Remember what that’s like? He reminded me of that, and then left. That was all he could have hoped for, given what he had to work with. Did I mention the bottle of Nuit d' Amour? In the bottom of the bottle was a proposition, Preceded by a long slow wave of demolition. What he was saying - One Juvenal knoweth that what he sayeth was at once true, though somewhat burnt on the outside, not unlike the Guatemalan roast with which I slink away. |
This Poem was Critiqued By: Elaine Marie Phalen On Date: 2004-12-02 10:40:01
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 10.00000
Tom, what a grand tribute to a cynical but grittily-real parody! Its fortuitous combo of Starbuck's and Dover Beach is a killer. I like the way you've presented the discussion of Hecht's passing as a somewhat-fragmented conversation. The "latte religion" seems a poor substitute for Hecht's personal agonies in the camps and afterwards. Yet you bow to his humor - the Nuit d'Amour that becomes the poor girl's reminder of lost chances out by the Channel, while her poetic lover is going on about the gathering dark and being true to one another. You give the nod to his accessible diction, in which ordinary people speak in human tongues without gods hovering above their shoulders. Yet there's an austere quality to his work, which you've chosen not to duplicate, and I think that's wise. Hecht's formal tone would not suit your style at all - not for this piece, anyhow.
As if someone stole the Mona Lisa from -
“Put it back, put it back,” they screamed.
In her absence they yammer on.
The poets nail him to
the cross.
But he will not be held there by nails.
Remarkable passage. Once someone is gone, we tend to want to compartmentalize him, capture his essence in a box, nail him up for inspection. But how do you manage this with Hecht? His voice is unstoppable even after death.
"Dover Beach" is probably one of my favorite poems in the world, by the way. That Hecht chose to satirize it is like taking on an icon and changing the paint job. That you, in turn, deliver your own form of parody is brave and glorious - also funny, in a subtle way.
This is cool, dude. VERY cool, in fact. I love it!!
Brenda