A guest post by Drew Housman

Joe Giago is skilled bowyer from the Pine Ridge Reservation in South Dakota and an enrolled member the Oglala Sioux tribe. Joe began his bow-making journey over 15 years ago from the encouragement of an uncle and has been carving beautiful replica Native American bows every since.

But she can still build the e-book future we’ve been waiting for. Here’s an open letter to the author.

The title poem in Anthony Hecht’s 1979 collection The Venetian Vespers is a dramatic monologue spoken by an aging American expatriate living in Venice. Across its roughly eight-hundred lines the speaker gives the impression of fleeing something left unstated – not a scandal or crime but his unsatisfactory self. In the sixth and final section he writes: “Ho fatto un fiasco, which is to say, / I’ve made a sort of bottle of my life, / A frangible and transparent failure.” The Italian can be translated: “I made a complete mess of it.” This indulgence in self-disgust continues:  “My efforts at their best are negatives: A poor attempt not to hurt anyone, A goal which, in the very nature of things, Is ludicrous because impossible. Viscid, contaminate, dynastic wastes Flood through the dark canals, the underpasses, Ducts and arterial sluices of my body . . .”   Here, Hecht makes an inspired transition:   “. . . As through those gutters of which Swift once wrote: ‘Sweepings from Butcher Stalls, Dung, Guts, and Blood, Drown’d Puppies, stinking Sprats, all drench’d in Mud, Dead Cats and Turnip-Tops come tumbling down the Flood.’”   Those are the concluding lines of “A Description of a City Shower,” a pastoral parody and my favorite among all of Swift’s poems, first published in The Tatler in October 1710. Pat Rogers in his edition of The Complete Poems (Yale University Press, 1983) tells us it was also Swift’s favorite. The final three rhyming lines are inspired. An early edition of the poem was subtitled an “imitation of Virgil’s Georg[ics].” Nearly as good as the passage quoted by Hecht are the lines leading up to them:   “Now from all parts the swelling kennels flow, And bear their trophies with them as they go:    Filth of all hues and odors seem to tell    What street they sailed from, by their sight and smell. They, as each torrent drives with rapid force,     From Smithfield or St. Pulchre’s shape their course,    And in huge confluence joined at Snow Hill ridge, Fall from the conduit prone to Holborn Bridge.”