Who is Anthony Evan Hecht

Anthony Hecht at the Iowa Writers Workshop in 1947. Photo by C. Cameron Macauley. Anthony Evan Hecht (January 16, 1923 – October 20, 2004) was an American poet. His work combined a deep interest in form with a passionate desire to confront the horrors of 20th century history, with the Second World War, in which he fought, and the Holocaust being recurrent themes in his work.

BiographyEarly years Hecht was born in New York City to German-Jewish parents. He was e...
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Anthony Evan Hecht Poems

  • The Dover Bitch: A Criticism Of Life
    So there stood Matthew Arnold and this girl
    With the cliffs of England crumbling away behind them,
    And he said to her, 'Try to be true to me,
    And I'll do the same for you, for things are bad ...
  • Sarabande On Attaining The Age Of Seventy-seven
    The harbingers are come. See, see their mark;
    White is their colour; and behold my head.
    -- George Herbert
  • Curriculum Vitae
    As though it were reluctant to be day,
    .......Morning deploys a scale
    .......Of rarities in gray,
    And winter settles down in its chain-mail, ...
  • The End Of The Weekend
    A dying firelight slides along the quirt
    Of the cast iron cowboy where he leans
    Against my father's books. The lariat
    Whirls into darkness. My girl in skin tight jeans ...
  • Tarantula, Or The Dance Of Death
    During the plague I came into my own.
    It was a time of smoke-pots in the house
    Against infection. The blind head of bone
    Grinned its abuse ...
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Top 10 most used topics by Anthony Evan Hecht

Time 10 Life 9 Away 8 Light 7 Dark 7 Cold 7 Black 7 World 7 Small 6 God 6

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Comments about Anthony Evan Hecht

  • Petloverhermine: 16jan/1923: anthony evan hecht is born in new york city
  • Poet_hadi: "others are bound to us, the gentle and blameless whose names are not confessed in the ceaseless palaver. my deares...
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Poem of the day

Andrew Lang Poem
Melville And Coghill - The Place Of The Little Hand
 by Andrew Lang

DEAD, with their eyes to the foe,
Dead, with the foe at their feet;
Under the sky laid low
Truly their slumber is sweet,
Though the wind from the Camp of the
Slain Men blow,
And the rain on the wilderness beat.


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