Classic and Contemporary Poetry: Explained

Jack Hirschman’s "W. C. Fields" is a poetic eulogy infused with humor, theatricality, and the spirit of its subject, the legendary comedian and actor W. C. Fields. The poem captures Fields’ distinctive voice and persona, full of sardonic wit, absurdity, and irreverence, while also acknowledging the inevitability of death. Hirschman does not merely write about Fields—he inhabits him, creating a monologue that feels as if the comedian himself were delivering his final farewell.

From the outset, the poem adopts the playful and exaggerated language reminiscent of Fields' own speech. The opening lines—"By Jove, my glowworm dove my chickadee"—echo his signature grandiloquence, mixing affectionate nonsense with the air of a vaudevillian performer. Yet the declaration that follows—"Death’s caught up with me at last with the last billing"—immediately frames the poem as a farewell. Death is presented as a theatrical event, the last billing, as if Fields’ life were a long-running show that must now close. The notion that so many elegant days are still unsipped introduces a tinge of regret, a lament for pleasures left unfulfilled, yet even this is delivered with a flourish rather than sorrow.

The next lines heighten the sense of comedy in the face of death. Fields, or rather Hirschman’s version of him, calls death a fraud and warns of its imminent danger—as if its inevitability were an outrageous scheme played upon him. Death is not a grim reaper but this fellow in the bright nightgown, a phrase that transforms the specter into a ridiculous figure, possibly a hospital orderly, an angel in ceremonial garb, or even a parody of theatrical costume. In this way, Fields remains himself to the very end, turning even mortality into a subject for humor.

The series of goodbyes that follow offer a strange, poetic inventory of things he is leaving behind. The stuffed fowl of a life foreshortened may be a self-mocking reference to indulgence, to a life that could have been longer but was cut short by excess. The rim of the glass of pure water forlorn is a particularly clever nod—Fields was famously averse to drinking water, preferring alcohol instead. His blond pulchritude of farflung travels suggests a farewell to the glamorous women and adventures that defined his career and persona. These images, however, are not tragic—they are absurd, whimsical, a final wink at the audience rather than a solemn reflection.

As the poem moves toward its conclusion, Fields embraces his departure as a theatrical exit. He does not die but instead attempts to climb the wagon whose steeds will wend bumpily along the road’s parched tongue to the provinces. This image suggests both a hearse and the old-fashioned traveling show wagons of vaudeville days, reinforcing the idea that his journey continues, just in another realm. The road’s parched tongue could imply both exhaustion and the dryness of a world deprived of his humor.

The final line—"But, Jehosaphat, my good man, has the chef by some mischance omitted the paprika?"—is a perfect comedic ending. Even at the threshold of death, Fields remains obsessed with life’s pleasures, reducing the grandeur of the moment to a mundane but essential detail: the absence of spice. The line suggests that death itself might be tolerable—if only it were properly seasoned.

Hirschman’s poem is a brilliant homage, capturing both the essence of W. C. Fields’ comedic persona and the deeper human need to laugh in the face of the inevitable. It transforms death from a somber event into a final act of performance, ensuring that even the end of life can be met with a theatrical flourish. By allowing Fields to speak in his own style, Hirschman grants him a fitting send-off, one that is as humorous, sharp, and irreverent as the man himself.

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