Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
For the first time, the vast canon of the poetry of Ted Hughes - winner of the Whitbread and Forward Prizes and former Poet Laureate - together in a single e-book.
The Collected Poems spans fifty years of work, from Hawk in the Rain to the best-selling Birthday Letters. It also includes the complete texts of such seminal publications as Crow and Tales from Ovid as well as those children's poems that Hughes felt crossed over into adult poetry. Most significantly it also includes small press publications and editions that, until now, remain uncollected and have never before been available to a general readership.
'A guardian spirit of the land and language.' Seamus Heaney
living vein. Odd trout Flash-plop, curdle the molten, Rive a wound in the smooth healing. Over the now pink-lit ballroom glass Tiny sedge-flies partner their shadows. A wobbly, wavering balance of light Mercury precarious in its sac Leans to the weir’s edge, spilling. Dog-bark stillness. A wood-pigeon is buffing the far edges Of the smoothing peace. Great weight Resting effortless on the weightless. A cow’s moo moves through the complex Of internestled metals, a moon-spasm Through
their Mother. I glimpse one labouring – a close-up In the brow of a wave. I glimpse the midget sneeze – A dream bursts its bubble. As much machinery As the upspurge of a big oak. (One time I found one had failed. It wallowed in the oil of light. I saw through my lens a tiny leech Corkscrewed into its head.) Luckier, in millions, A catkin-green, dragonish torso Hauls from its sleeping bag – A yacht has a blown, stubborn moment – Falters, lifts from the Lough’s melt – The Mayflies
goes on them all Mamma Mamma Oedipus took an axe and split The Sphinx from top to bottom The answers aren’t in me, he cried Maybe your guts have got em Mamma Mamma And out there came ten thousand ghosts All in their rotten bodies Crying, You will never know What a cruel bastard God is Mamma Mamma Next came out his Daddy dead And shrieked about the place He stabs his Mammy in the guts And smiles into her face Mamma Mamma Then out his Mammy came herself The blood
grass forest Like a fairytale hero, only a marvel can help her. She cannot fathom the mystery of this forest In which, for instance, this giant watches – The giant who knows she cannot be helped in any way. Her jointed bamboo fuselage, Her lobster shoulders, and her face Like a pinhead dragon, with its tender moustache, And the simple colourless church windows of her wings Will come to an end, in mid-search, quite soon. Everything about her, every perfected vestment Is already
the small hills of the West, 20 In the ruby and emerald lights, the leaf-wet oils Of your memory’s masterpiece. Hedge-sparrows Needle the bramble-mass undergrowth With their weepy warnings. You have the gun. We harden our eyes. We are alert. The gun-muzzle is sniffing. And the broad land Tautens into wilder, nervier contrasts Of living and unliving. Our eyes feather over it As over a touchy detonator. Bootprints between the ranks of baby barley 30 Heel and toe we go Narrowed