Poetry on the Underground
Life tries.
Death tries.
The stone tries.
Only the rain never tires.
(from the poem Heptonstall)
Ted Hughes is not the kind of stuff you read early in the morning while commuting. The verses are too complex, you need plenty of time and concentration. Most of all, his images are too big to be cramped into a crowded carriage.
But this book arrived with the morning post and I couldn’t resist taking it with me. It’s used, an out-of-print edition. It’s your book, surely one you have loved and enjoyed, probably one you will miss; but then you like to give away objects that you love, it makes you feel saintly.
I love the book’s aromas: English wet countryside, paper, mould. They create beautiful images: you and your beloved, the cats, the music, the countryhouse. I skim through the pages, read lines and words at random. I think I know one of the reasons you love his poems. I think it's the dominant images of animals. A hen, a bird, a frog, a cow, a grasshopper... They deliver everything that’s important about life, death and everything inbetween in a way that is richer and more simple than any human could manage.
You are right, every home should have a selection of Ted Hughes poems.
Thanks for being my friend.
P.S.: Photo appears courtesy of Nikitas (http://nikitas.deviantart.com)
posted by Rainman at
6/08/2005 11:10:00 AM
4 Comments:
Great photo and great post - your best in the short life of your blog so far :-)
Anthony sent this, am I right?
I shoulld get one of these myself. But you cannot advise us to go seek an out of print edition rainman, it's not fair!!!
:-)
Thank you! :-)
You can find a new edition of this in amazon.com, if you are interested. I think only the cover is different.
ted hughes - work and play
.
the swallow of summer, she toils all the summer,
a blue-dark knot of glittering voltage,
a whiplash swimmer, a fish of the air.
but the serpent of cars that crawls through the dust
in shimmering exhaust
searching to slake
its fever in ocean
will play and be idle or else it will bust.
the swallow of summer, the barbed harpoon,
she flings from the furnace, a rainbow of purples,
dips her glow in the pond and is perfect.
but the serpent of cars that collapsed on the beach
disgorges its organs
a scamper of colours
which roll like tomatoes
nude as tomatoes
with sand in their creases
to cringe in the sparkle of rollers and screech.
the swallow of summer, the seamstress of summer,
she scissors the blue into shapes and she sews it,
she draws a long thread and she knots it at the corners.
but the holiday people
are laid out like wounded
flat as in ovens
roasting and basting
with faces of torment as space burns them blue
their heads are transistors
their teeth grit on sand grains
their lost kids are squalling
while man-eating flies
jab electric shock needles but what can they do?
they can climb in their cars with raw bodies, raw faces
and start up the serpent
and headache it homeward
a car full of squabbles
and sobbing and stickiness
with sand in their crannies
inhaling petroleum
that pours from the foxgloves
while the evening swallow
the swallow of summer, cartwheeling through crimson,
touches the honey-slow river and turning
returns to the hand stretched from under the eaves -
a boomerang of rejoicing shadow.
.
xx
Beautiful, isn't it?
Thanks boyracer!
xxx
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