Poems List

Macaw and Little Miss

Macaw and Little Miss

In a cage of wire-ribs
The size of a man's head, the macaw bristles in a staring
Combustion, suffers the stoking devils of his eyes.
In the old lady's parlour, where an aspidistra succumbs
To the musk of faded velvet, he hangs in clear flames,

Like a torturer's iron instrument preparing
With dense slow shudderings of greens, yellows, blues,
Crimsoning into the barbs:


Or like the smouldering head that hung
In Killdevil's brass kitchen, in irons, who had been
Volcano swearing to vomit the world away in black ash,
And would, one day; or a fugitive aristocrat
From some thunderous mythological hierarchy, caught

By a little boy with a crust and a bent pin,
Or snare of horsehair set for a song-thrush,
And put in a cage to sing.


The old lady who feeds him seeds
Has a grand-daughter. The girl calls him 'Poor Polly', pokes fun.
'Jolly Mop.' But lies under every full moon,
The spun glass of her body bared and so gleam-still
Her brimming eyes do not tremble or spill

The dream where the warrior comes, lightning and iron,
Smashing and burning and rending towards her loin:
Deep into her pillow her silence pleads.

All day he stares at his furnace
With eyes red-raw, but when she comes they close.
'Polly. Pretty Poll', she cajoles, and rocks him gently.
She caresses, whispers kisses. The blue lids stay shut.
She strikes the cage in a tantrum and swirls out:

Instantly beak, wings, talons crash
The bars in conflagration and frenzy,
And his shriek shakes the house.
371

Pike

Pike


Pike, three inches long, perfect
Pike in all parts, green tigering the gold.
Killers from the egg: the malevolent aged grin.
They dance on the surface among the flies.


Or move, stunned by their own grandeur,
Over a bed of emerald, silhouette
Of submarine delicacy and horror.
A hundred feet long in their world.


In ponds, under the heat-struck lily pads-
Gloom of their stillness:
Logged on last year's black leaves, watching upwards.
Or hung in an amber cavern of weeds


The jaws' hooked clamp and fangs
Not to be changed at this date:
A life subdued to its instrument;
The gills kneading quietly, and the pectorals.


Three we kept behind glass,
Jungled in weed: three inches, four,
And four and a half: red fry to them-
Suddenly there were two. Finally one


With a sag belly and the grin it was born with.
And indeed they spare nobody.
Two, six pounds each, over two feet long
High and dry and dead in the willow-herb-


One jammed past its gills down the other's gullet:
The outside eye stared: as a vice locks-
The same iron in this eye
Though its film shrank in death.


A pond I fished, fifty yards across,
Whose lilies and muscular tench
Had outlasted every visible stone
Of the monastery that planted them-


Stilled legendary depth:
It was as deep as England. It held
Pike too immense to stir, so immense and old
That past nightfall I dared not cast


But silently cast and fished
With the hair frozen on my head
For what might move, for what eye might move.
The still splashes on the dark pond,


Owls hushing the floating woods
Frail on my ear against the dream



Darkness beneath night's darkness had freed,
That rose slowly toward me, watching.
766

Hawk Roosting

Hawk Roosting

I sit in the top of the wood, my eyes closed.
Inaction, no falsifying dream
Between my hooked head and hooked feet:
Or in sleep rehearse perfect kills and eat.


The convenience of the high trees!
The air's buoyancy and the sun's ray
Are of advantage to me;
And the earth's face upward for my inspection.


My feet are locked upon the rough bark.
It took the whole of Creation
To produce my foot, my each feather:
Now I hold Creation in my foot


Or fly up, and revolve it all slowly -
I kill where I please because it is all mine.
There is no sophistry in my body:
My manners are tearing off heads -


The allotment of death.
For the one path of my flight is direct
Through the bones of the living.
No arguments assert my right:


The sun is behind me.
Nothing has changed since I began.
My eye has permitted no change.
I am going to keep things like this.
581

Lineage

Lineage


In the beginning was Scream
Who begat Blood
Who begat Eye
Who begat Fear
Who begat Wing
Who begat Bone
Who begat Granite
Who begat Violet
Who begat Guitar
Who begat Sweat
Who begat Adam
Who begat Mary
Who begat God
Who begat Nothing
Who begat Never
Never Never Never


Who begat Crow


Screaming for Blood
Grubs, crusts


Anything


Trembling featherless elbows in the nest's filth
275

Crow's Nerve Fails

Crow's Nerve Fails

Crow, feeling his brain slip,
Finds his every feather the fossil of a murder.


Who murdered all these?
These living dead, that root in his nerves and his blood
Till he is visibly black?


How can he fly from his feathers?
And why have they homed on him?


Is he the archive of their accusations?
Or their ghostly purpose, their pining vengeance?
Or their unforgiven prisoner?


He cannot be forgiven.


His prison is the earth. Clothed in his conviction,
Trying to remember his crimes


Heavily he flies.
375

Examination at the Womb-Door

Examination at the Womb-Door

Who owns those scrawny little feet? Death.
Who owns this bristly scorched-looking face? Death.
Who owns these still-working lungs? Death.
Who owns this utility coat of muscles? Death.
Who owns these unspeakable guts? Death.
Who owns these questionable brains? Death.
All this messy blood? Death.
These minimum-efficiency eyes? Death.
This wicked little tongue? Death.
This occasional wakefulness? Death.


Given, stolen, or held pending trial?
Held.


Who owns the whole rainy, stony earth? Death.
Who owns all of space? Death.


Who is stronger than hope? Death.
Who is stronger than the will? Death.
Stronger than love? Death.
Stronger than life? Death.


But who is stronger than Death?
Me, evidently.
Pass, Crow.
685

Bride and Groom Lie Hidden for Three Days

Bride and Groom Lie Hidden for Three Days

She gives him his eyes, she found them
Among some rubble, among some beetles


He gives her her skin
He just seemed to pull it down out of the air and lay it over her
She weeps with fearfulness and astonishment


She has found his hands for him, and fitted them freshly at the wrists
They are amazed at themselves, they go feeling all over her


He has assembled her spine, he cleaned each piece carefully
And sets them in perfect order
A superhuman puzzle but he is inspired
She leans back twisting this way and that, using it and laughing
Incredulous


Now she has brought his feet, she is connecting them
So that his whole body lights up


And he has fashioned her new hips
With all fittings complete and with newly wound coils, all shiningly oiled
He is polishing every part, he himself can hardly believe it


They keep taking each other to the sun, they find they can easily
To test each new thing at each new step


And now she smoothes over him the plates of his skull
So that the joints are invisible


And now he connects her throat, her breasts and the pit of her stomach
With a single wire


She gives him his teeth, tying the the roots to the centrepin of his body


He sets the little circlets on her fingertips


She stiches his body here and there with steely purple silk


He oils the delicate cogs of her mouth


She inlays with deep cut scrolls the nape of his neck


He sinks into place the inside of her thighs


So, gasping with joy, with cries of wonderment
Like two gods of mud
Sprawling in the dirt, but with infinite care
They bring each other to perfection.
306

A Woman Unconscious

A Woman Unconscious

Russia and America circle each other;
Threats nudge an act that were without doubt
A melting of the mould in the mother,
Stones melting about the root.


The quick of the earth burned out:
The toil of all our ages a loss
With leaf and insect. Yet flitting thought
(Not to be thought ridiculous)


Shies from the world-cancelling black
Of its playing shadow: it has learned
That there's no trusting (trusting to luck)
Dates when the world's due to be burned;


That the future's no calamitous change
But a malingering of now,
Histories, towns, faces that no
Malice or accident much derange.


And though bomb be matched against bomb,
Though all mankind wince out and nothing endure --
Earth gone in an instant flare --
Did a lesser death come


Onto the white hospital bed
Where one, numb beyond her last of sense,
Closed her eyes on the world's evidence
And into pillows sunk her head.


Submitted by Andrew Mayers
608

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Identification and basic context

Edward James "Ted" Hughes was a highly influential English poet, translator, and playwright. He is widely regarded as one of the most significant poets of the post-war era, known for his intense engagement with nature, myth, and the animal world. His major collections include The Hawk in the Rain (1957), Crow (1970), Moortown (1979), and Birthday Letters (1998). Born on August 17, 1930, in Mytholmroyd, West Riding of Yorkshire, England, he died on October 28, 1998, in North Tawton, Devon, England. His family background was working-class, with strong ties to the Yorkshire landscape, which profoundly shaped his poetic vision. He wrote exclusively in English.

Childhood and education

Hughes's childhood was spent in the rugged landscape of Yorkshire, an environment that deeply influenced his early perceptions and later poetry. His family ran a small shop, and his father had served in the trenches of World War I, experiences that he later incorporated into his work. He attended Mirfield Grammar School, where he discovered his passion for poetry. After completing his National Service, he studied English at Pembroke College, Cambridge, though he later transferred to study archaeology and anthropology, interests that would continue to inform his work. He was an avid reader, absorbing influences from classical mythology, folklore, and early English literature.

Literary trajectory

Hughes's poetic career began to gain momentum in the early 1950s. His first major collection, The Hawk in the Rain (1957), published by Faber and Faber, announced his arrival with its powerful, often violent, imagery and uncompromising engagement with the natural world. This collection established his reputation for a rugged, elemental style. He continued to develop this distinctive voice through subsequent works like Lupercal (1960) and Wodwo (1967). The Crow sequence (1970) marked a significant shift, employing a more mythic and philosophical approach, often using the trickster figure of Crow to explore themes of creation, destruction, and survival. His later works, such as Moortown and Birthday Letters, continued to explore personal experiences, myth, and the natural world with profound insight.

Works, style, and literary characteristics

Hughes's major works include The Hawk in the Rain, Lupercal, Crow, Moortown, and Birthday Letters. His dominant themes are the power and brutality of nature, the interconnectedness of life and death, the presence of myth and ritual in contemporary life, and the struggle for survival. Hughes's style is characterized by its directness, its potent imagery drawn from the animal kingdom and the natural landscape, and its often startling violence. He employed strong rhythms and a muscular diction, frequently using Anglo-Saxon influences. His poems often feature animals—hawks, wolves, otters, badgers—as protagonists, exploring their instincts and their place in the larger cosmic order. He sought to return poetry to a more primal, elemental state, moving away from what he saw as the overly intellectualized or personal poetry of his predecessors. His innovations included a bold re-engagement with myth and a visceral portrayal of the animal psyche.

Cultural and historical context

Hughes lived through the latter half of the 20th century, a period marked by significant social and political change, including the Cold War, decolonization, and evolving attitudes towards the environment. His work, while often rooted in ancient myths and the natural world, resonated with contemporary anxieties about humanity's place in a rapidly changing and often violent world. He was associated with the "Movement" poets but forged a distinct path, often seen as more primal and less overtly political than some of his contemporaries. His marriage to the American poet Sylvia Plath and their subsequent, highly publicized, personal tragedies also placed him in the public eye, sometimes overshadowing his literary achievements.

Personal life

Hughes's personal life was marked by both profound love and intense tragedy. His marriage to Sylvia Plath, another highly regarded poet, was a central event in his life and the subject of his later collection Birthday Letters. Their relationship was passionate but also tumultuous, and Plath's suicide in 1963 cast a long shadow over his life and work. He later married Carol Orchard. Hughes was known for his deep connection to the land and his often solitary existence, dedicating much of his life to his writing and his love for animals and nature. He held strong beliefs about the spiritual and restorative power of the natural world.

Recognition and reception

Hughes achieved considerable recognition during his lifetime. He was appointed Poet Laureate in 1984, a position he held until his death, succeeding Sir John Betjeman. His work was consistently praised for its power, originality, and depth. While some critics found his work too violent or obscure, his reputation grew steadily, and he is now considered a central figure in 20th-century British poetry. His poems are widely anthologized and studied in schools and universities.

Influences and legacy

Hughes was influenced by classical poets, Shakespeare, the Romantics, and modernists, as well as by folklore, mythology, and anthropology. His legacy is immense; he revitalized the English poetic tradition by reintroducing a sense of mythic depth, elemental power, and visceral engagement with the natural world. He inspired generations of poets to explore the primal forces within nature and the human psyche, and to write with a bolder, more muscular language. His influence is evident in the work of many contemporary poets who continue to grapple with similar themes.

Interpretation and critical analysis

Hughes's poetry invites analysis of its relationship to myth, its exploration of the animal psyche, and its commentary on human violence and survival. Critics often discuss the balance between the beautiful and the brutal in his work, the role of myth in understanding contemporary experience, and the complex personal resonances within his poems, particularly concerning his relationship with Sylvia Plath. His poems continue to provoke discussion about humanity's relationship with nature and its own darker impulses.

Curiosities and lesser-known aspects

Beyond his poetry, Hughes was also a significant children's author, writing books such as The Iron Man. He had a deep respect for animals and often found solace and inspiration in observing them. His dedication to his craft was unwavering, and he was known for his meticulous attention to language and form. His life, particularly his relationship with Sylvia Plath, has been the subject of considerable biographical and critical attention.

Death and memory

Ted Hughes died in London in 1998. His death was widely mourned, and his status as a major poet was firmly established. His final collection, Birthday Letters, published shortly before his death, offered a poignant and deeply personal reflection on his life and relationships. His legacy continues to be celebrated through ongoing critical study, new editions of his work, and the enduring influence of his powerful and elemental verse.