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Collected Poems

Ted Hughes
From the astonishing debut Hawk in the Rain (1957) to Birthday Letters (1998), Ted Hughes was one of postwar literature's truly prodigious poets. This remarkable volume gathers all of his work, from his earliest poems (published only in journals) through the ground-breaking volumes Crow (1970), Gaudete(1977), and Tales from Ovid (1997). It includes poems Hughes composed for fine-press printers, poems he wrote as England's Poet Laureate, and those children's poems that he meant for adults as well...

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  • Аватар пользователя
    Аноним6 мая 2013 г.

    Your poems are like a dark city centre.
    Your novel, your stories, your journals, your letters, are suburbs
    Of this big city.
    The hotels are lit like office blocks all night
    With scholars, priests, pilgrims. It’s at night
    Sometimes I drive through. I just find
    Myself driving through, going slow, simply
    Roaming in my own darkness, pondering
    What you did. Nearly always
    I glimpse you – at some crossing,
    Staring upwards, lost, sixty year old.

    6
    120
  • Аватар пользователя
    Аноним6 мая 2013 г.

    Late afternoon Friday
    my last sight of you alive
    burning your letter to me
    in the ashtray
    with that strange smile…

    And I had started to write when the telephone
    Jerked awake, in a jabbering alarm,
    Remembering everything. It recovered in my hand.
    Then a voice like a selected weapon
    Or a measured injection,
    Coolly delivered its four words
    Deep into my ear: Your wife is dead.

    5
    104
  • Аватар пользователя
    Аноним6 мая 2013 г.

    Somebody had made one. You admired it.
    So you began to make your rag rug.
    You needed to do it. Played on by lightnings
    You needed an earth. Maybe. Or needed
    To pull something out of yourself—
    Some tapeworm of the psyche. I was simply
    Happy to watch your scissors being fearless
    …
    Whenever you worked at your carpet I felt happy.
    Then I could read Conrad’s novels to you.
    I could cradle your freed mind in my voice,
    Chapter by chapter, sentence by sentence,
    Word by word: “Heart of Darkness,”
    …
    I dreamed of our house
    Before we ever found it. A great snake
    Lifted its head from a well in the middle of the house
    Exactly where the well is, beneath its slab,
    In the middle of the house.
    A golden serpent, thick as a child’s body,
    Eased from the opened well. And poured out
    Through the back door, a length that seemed unending—

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  • Collected Poems