Collected Poems by Ted Hughes
By Ted Hughes
For the 1st time, the significant canon of the poetry of Ted Hughes - winner of the Whitbread and ahead Prizes and previous Poet Laureate - jointly in one e-book.
The gathered Poems spans fifty years of labor, from Hawk within the Rain to the best-selling Birthday Letters. additionally it is the full texts of such seminal courses as Crow and stories from Ovid in addition to these children's poems that Hughes felt crossed over into grownup poetry. most importantly it is also small press guides and variations that, before, stay uncollected and feature by no means prior to been on hand to a basic readership.
'A mother or father spirit of the land and language.' Seamus Heaney
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A marching band, three hundred strong, can’t drown the bass drum out. Boys beat it hard and nearby hats bounce off, the home team behind at the half. Leaving sixty is no season for marching bands and drums, but piccolos in a heated hall, Guy Lombardo saxophones for waltzes, grandmothers in gowns and beaux in party hats. Ring out the old and throw confetti wildly with the throng, a night of Times Square madness before it’s time for indoor rockers and oxygen for the heart, at most a few more months of ice.
It says Mobeetee on the map, the puzzling word they heard breech-cloth Comanches say. Smooth-chested natives never smiled, saying it slowly to their faces, mo-bee-tee —buffalo dung, the runny kind, not chips women gathered in baskets and burned. Years ago, I found stone walls of a house they abandoned after drought and more dead babies, after cowboys told Great-granddaddy what mobeetee meant. One turned his head to spit from his stallion, not even smiling as they trotted off. Here are his first wife’s stone, and his.
We know spring runoff will water summer’s hay, we’ll own the ranch someday, if luck and hard work save us, knowing these dusty plains are home, our south and north, a thousand miles of stars. [ 41 ] Hoping to Break the Chain My cousin lifted his foot to a chair, and it broke, toppling him like a fat man in a hammock, the chair mashed flat. His sister leaned on the wall, a popping of unstoppable laughter and staccato hiccups. Always they fought over nothing, but laughs were reason enough for murder, said the frown in my cousin’s fist.