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"Poetry is the voice of spirit and imagination..." - Ted Hughes

Discussion in 'Poetry and Art' started by WildStrawberry, Dec 15, 2012.

  1. WildStrawberry

    WildStrawberry New Member

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    "Poetry is the voice of spirit and imagination and all that is potential, as well as of the healing benevolence that used to be the privileged of the gods." - Ted Hughes

    That said, here's a triptych of Ted Hughes poems. Hope you like them ;)
    .


    The Thought-Fox


    I imagine this midnight moment's forest:
    Something else is alive
    Beside the clock's loneliness
    And this blank page where my fingers move.

    Through the window I see no star:
    Something more near
    Though deeper within darkness
    Is entering the loneliness:

    Cold, delicately as the dark snow
    A fox's nose touches twig, leaf;
    Two eyes serve a movement, that now
    And again now, and now, and now

    Sets neat prints into the snow
    Between trees, and warily a lame
    Shadow lags by stump and in hollow
    Of a body that is bold to come

    Across clearings, an eye,
    A widening deepening greenness,
    Brilliantly, concentratedly,
    Coming about its own business

    Till, with a sudden sharp hot stink of fox
    It enters the dark hole of the head.
    The window is starless still; the clock ticks,
    The page is printed.


    Full Moon and Little Frieda

    A cool small evening shrunk to a dog bark and the clank of a bucket -
    And you listening.
    A spider's web, tense for the dew's touch.
    A pail lifted, still and brimming - mirror
    To tempt a first star to a tremor.

    Cows are going home in the lane there, looping the hedges with their warm
    wreaths of breath -
    A dark river of blood, many boulders,
    Balancing unspilled milk.
    'Moon!' you cry suddenly, 'Moon! Moon!'

    The moon has stepped back like an artist gazing amazed at a work
    That points at him amazed.


    The Warm and the Cold

    Freezing dusk is closing
    Like a slow trap of steel
    On trees and roads and hills and all
    That can no longer feel.
    But the carp is in its depth
    Like a planet in its heaven.
    And the badger in its bedding
    Like a loaf in the oven.
    And the butterfly in its mummy
    Like a viol in its case.
    And the owl in its feathers
    Like a doll in its lace.

    Freezing dusk has tightened
    Like a nut screwed tight
    On the starry aeroplane
    Of the soaring night.
    But the trout is in its hole
    Like a chuckle in a sleeper.
    The hare strays down the highway
    Like a root going deeper.
    The snail is dry in the outhouse
    Like a seed in a sunflower.
    The owl is pale on the gatepost
    Like a clock on its tower.

    Moonlight freezes the shaggy world
    Like a mammoth of ice -
    The past and the future
    Are the jaws of a steel vice.
    But the cod is in the tide-rip
    Like a key in a purse.
    The deer are on the bare-blown hill
    Like smiles on a nurse.
    The flies are behind the plaster
    Like the lost score of a jig.
    Sparrows are in the ivy-clump
    Like money in a pig.

    Such a frost
    The flimsy moon
    Has lost her wits.

    A star falls.

    The sweating farmers
    Turn in their sleep
    Like oxen on spits.

    Ted Hughes
     

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