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تد هیوزTed Hughes ملک الشعرای انگلیس

شروع موضوع توسط minaaa ‏10/2/11 در انجمن معرفی شخصیتها، زندگینامه و کتاب

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    BIOGRAPHY


    Ted Hughes (1930-1998) was born in Yorkshire, in the small village of
    Mytholmroyd. His father was a carpenter and later became a shopkeeper,
    but his disturbed memories of his experiences in World War I, when he
    was one of a handful in his regiment to survive the slaughter of the
    British troops at Gallipoli, were a haunting presence in the family's
    life. After finishing grammar school Hughes spent two years in the Royal
    Air Force, stationed at a lonely radio station in Yorkshire where he
    spent most of his time reading. Pembroke College, at Cambridge
    University, followed his military service. Although he switched from
    studying English to archaeology and anthropology, he continued to read
    voraciously, and his later writings showed the influence of books like
    The White Goddess, by the English novelist and poet Robert
    Graves, that he read at this time.

    Following his graduation in 1954, he spent two years
    working a series of jobs in London, and then he returned to Cambridge to
    start an unsuccessful literary magazine with friends. At the inaugural
    party he met a young American college student who had recently come to
    England on a Fulbright scholarship. Her name was Sylvia Plath, and
    within a few months they were married. They spent two years at the
    University of Massachusetts in Amherst, from 1957 to 1959, where he
    taught English and creative writing. Both Hughes and Plath spent every
    moment they could find writing poetry. As he said later, "It was all we
    were interested in, all we ever did." By the time they returned to
    England in 1959, he had already begun publishing successfully, which
    aggravated tensions that already existed in their marriage. Despite two
    children and a period of life in rural Devon, they became increasingly
    estranged, and when Hughes began an affair with another woman, Plath
    left him, moved to London with their children, and in 1963 committed
    suicide.

    For American readers this seemed to sum up Hughes's
    career, but he went on to write dozens of books on a variety of subjects
    as well as a body of poetry that placed him among the most prominent
    poets of his generation. In 1981, he was named England's poet laureate.
    Often he was bitterly attacked for what many critics felt was his role
    in Plath's suicide, and as her literary executor he aggravated the
    situation by destroying portions of her personal diaries. It was not
    until the end of his life that he spoke out about their relationship, in
    a collection of poems that described their marriage and its tragic
    ending. The book Birthday Letters, published in 1999, became an
    international best seller, even if it didn't placate his enemies or
    entirely please his friends.

     
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    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.
     
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    Old Age
    Gets Up





    Stirs its ashes and embers, its burnt sticks



    An eye powdered over, half melted and solid again

    Ponders

    Ideas that collapse

    At the first touch of attention



    The light at the window, so square and so same

    So full-strong as ever, the window frame

    A scaffold in space, for eyes to lean on



    Supporting the body, shaped to its old work

    Making small movements in gray air

    Numbed from the blurred accident

    Of having lived, the fatal, real injury

    Under the amnesia



    Something tries to save itself-searches

    For defenses-but words evade

    Like flies with their own notions



    Old age slowly gets dressed

    Heavily dosed with death's night

    Sits on the bed's edge



    Pulls its pieces together

    Loosely tucks in its shirt

     
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    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.


     
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    Wind

    This house has
    been far out at sea all night,

    The woods crashing through darkness, the booming hills,

    Winds stampeding the fields under the window

    Floundering black astride and blinding wet



    Till day rose; then under an orange sky

    The hills had new places, and wind wielded

    Blade-light, luminous black and emerald,

    Flexing like the lens of a mad eye.



    At noon I scaled along the house-side as far as

    The coal-house door. Once I looked up -

    Through the brunt wind that dented the balls of my eyes

    The tent of the hills drummed and strained its guyrope,



    The fields quivering, the skyline a grimace,

    At any second to bang and vanish with a flap;

    The wind flung a magpie away and a black-

    Back gull bent like an iron bar slowly. The house



    Rang like some fine green goblet in the note

    That any second would shatter it. Now deep

    In chairs, in front of the great fire, we grip

    Our hearts and cannot entertain book, thought,



    Or each other. We watch the fire blazing,

    And feel the roots of the house move, but sit on,

    Seeing the window tremble to come in,

    Hearing the stones cry out under the horizons.
     
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    Theology

    "No, the serpent did not

    Seduce Eve to the apple.

    All that's simply

    Corruption of the facts.



    Adam ate the apple.

    Eve ate Adam.

    The serpent ate Eve.

    This is the dark intestine.



    The serpent, meanwhile,

    Sleeps his meal off in Paradise -

    Smiling to hear

    God's querulous calling."
     
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    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.
     
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    September

    We sit late, watching the dark slowly unfold:

    No clock counts this.

    When kisses are repeated and the arms hold

    There is no telling where time is.



    It is midsummer: the leaves hang big and still:

    Behind the eye a star,

    Under the silk of the wrist a sea, tell

    Time is nowhere.



    We stand; leaves have not timed the summer.

    No clock now needs

    Tell we have only what we remember:

    Minutes uproaring with our heads



    Like an unfortunate King's and his Queen's

    When the senseless mob rules;

    And quietly the trees casting their crowns

    Into the pools.
     
    Mastaneh، سایه و *Mitra* از این ارسال تشکر کرده اند.
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    A Woman
    Unconscious



    Russia and America circle each other;

    Threats nudge an act that were without doubt

    A melting of the mould in the mother,

    Stones melting about the root.



    The quick of the earth burned out:

    The toil of all our ages a loss

    With leaf and insect. Yet flitting thought

    (Not to be thought ridiculous)



    Shies from the world-cancelling black

    Of its playing shadow: it has learned

    That there's no trusting (trusting to luck)

    Dates when the world's due to be burned;



    That the future's no calamitous change

    But a malingering of now,

    Histories, towns, faces that no

    Malice or accident much derange.



    And though bomb be matched against bomb,

    Though all mankind wince out and nothing endure --

    Earth gone in an instant flare --

    Did a lesser death come



    Onto the white hospital bed

    Where one, numb beyond her last of sense,

    Closed her eyes on the world's evidence

    And into pillows sunk her head.





    Submitted by Andrew Mayers
     
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    The Seven
    Sorrows
    The first sorrow of autumn

    Is the slow goodbye


    Of the garden who stands so long in the evening-


    A brown poppy head,


    The stalk of a lily,


    And still cannot go.




    The second sorrow


    Is the empty feet


    Of a pheasant who hangs from a hook with his brothers.


    The woodland of gold


    Is folded in feathers


    With its head in a bag.




    And the third sorrow


    Is the slow goodbye


    Of the sun who has gathered the birds and who gathers


    The minutes of evening,


    The golden and holy


    Ground of the picture.




    The fourth sorrow


    Is the pond gone black


    Ruined and sunken the city of water-


    The beetle's palace,


    The catacombs


    Of the dragonfly.




    And the fifth sorrow


    Is the slow goodbye


    Of the woodland that quietly breaks up its camp.


    One day it's gone.


    It has only left litter-


    Firewood, tentpoles.




    And the sixth sorrow


    Is the fox's sorrow


    The joy of the huntsman, the joy of the hounds,


    The hooves that pound


    Till earth closes her ear


    To the fox's prayer.




    And the seventh sorrow


    Is the slow goodbye


    Of the face with its wrinkles that looks through the window


    As the year packs up


    Like a tatty fairground


    That came for the children.




    Ted Hughes

     
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