A Sampler of Excerpts From the Poetry of Ted Hughes
</NYT_HEADLINE 
Visit (Excerpt)
Suddenly I read all this -- 
Your actual words, as they floated 
Out through your throat and tongue and onto your page -- 
Just as when your daughter, years ago now, 
Drifting in, gazing up into my face, 
Mystified, 
Where I worked alone 
In the silent house, asked, suddenly: 
'Daddy, where's Mummy?' The freezing soil 
Of the garden, as I clawed it, 
All round me that midnight's 
Giant clock of frost. And somewhere 
Inside it, wanting to feel nothing, 
A pulse of fever. Somewhere 
Inside that numbness of the earth 
Our future trying to happen. 
I look up -- as if to meet your voice 
With all its urgent future 
That has burst in on me. Then look back 
At the book of the printed words. 
You are ten years dead. It is only a story. 
Your story. My story. 
From "Birthday Letters," Farrar, Straus & Giroux, 1998 
Apprehensions
Your writing was also your fear, 
At times it was your terror, that all 
Your wedding presents, your dreams, your husband 
Would be taken from you 
By the terror's goblins. Your typewriter 
Would be taken. Your sewing-machine. Your children. 
All would be taken. 
The fear was the colour of your desk-top, 
You almost knew its features. 
That grain was like its skin, you could stroke it. 
You could taste it in your milky coffee. 
It made a noise like your typewriter. 
It hid in its own jujus -- 
Your mantelpiece mermaid of terracotta. 
Your coppery fondue pan. Your linen. Your curtains. 
You stared at these. You knew it was there. 
It hid in your Schaeffer pen -- 

That was its favourite place. Whenever you wrote 
You would stop, mid-word, 
To look at it more closely, black, fat, 
Between your fingers -- 
The swelling terror that would any moment 
Suddenly burst out and take from you 
Your husband, your children, your body, your life. 
You could see it, there, in your pen. 

Somebody took that too. 
From "Birthday Letters," Farrar, Straus & Giroux, 1998 
St. Botolph's
First sight. First snapshot isolated 
Unalterable, stilled in the camera's glare. 
Taller 
Than ever you were again. Swaying so slender 
It seemed your long, perfect, American legs 
Simply went on up. That flaring hand, 
Those long, balletic, monkey-elegant fingers. 
And the face -- a tight ball of joy. 
I see you there, clearer, more real Than in any of the years in its shadow -- 
As if I saw you that once, then never again. 
From "Birthday Letters," Farrar, Straus & Giroux, 1998 
18 Rugby Street
We walked across south London to Fetter Lane 
And your hotel. Opposite the entrance 
On a bombsite becoming a building site 
We clutched each other giddily 
For safety and went in a barrel together 
Over some Niagara. Falling 
In the roar of soul your scar told me -- 
Like its secret name, or its password -- 
How you had tried to kill yourself. And I heard 
Without ceasing for a moment to kiss you 
As if a sober star had whispered it 
Above the revolving, rumbling city: stay clear. 
From "Birthday Letters," Farrar, Straus & Giroux, 1998 
Night Arrival of Sea Trout
Honeysuckle hanging her fangs. 
Foxglove rearing her open belly. 
Dogrose touching the membrane. 

Through the dew's mist, the oak's mass 
Comes plunging, tossing dark antlers. 

Then a shattering 
Of the river's hole, where something leaps out -- 

An upside-down, buried heaven 
Snarls, moon-mouthed, and shivers. 

Summer dripping stars, biting at the nape. 
Lobworms coupling in saliva. 
Earth singing under her breath 

And out in the hard corn a horned god 
Running and leaping 
With a bat in his drum. 

