Ted Hughes
Ted Hughes
Edward James "Ted" Hughes, OMwas an English poet and children's writer. Critics frequently rank him as one of the best poets of his generation, and one of the twentieth century's greatest writers. He served as Poet Laureate from 1984 until his death...
NationalityEnglish
ProfessionPoet
Date of Birth17 August 1930
eye changed things-have-changed
Nothing has changed since I began. My eye has permitted no change. I am going to keep things like this.
pain loss sacrifice
You solve it as you get older, when you reach the point where you've tasted so much that you can somehow sacrifice certain things more easily, and you have a more tolerant view of things like possessiveness (your own) and a broader acceptance of the pains and the losses.
long horizon world
The world rolls under the long thrust of his heel. Over the cage floor the horizons come.
thinking people world
I think it was Milosz, the Polish poet, who when he lay in a doorway and watched the bullets lifting the cobbles out of the street beside him realised that most poetry is not equipped for life in a world where people actually die. But some is.
addresses parcel
Do as you like with me. I'm your parcel. I have only our address on me. Open me, or readdress me.
white black
Where white is black and black is white, I won.
past depth nightfall
Stilled legendary depth: It was as deep as England. It held Pike too immense to stir, so immense and old That past nightfall I dared not cast.
dark hot pages
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.
looks administration participation
The Bush administration doesn't particularly like public participation. It makes them look bad.
stars elephants forests
And the elephant sings deep in the forest-maze About a star of deathless and painless peace But no astronomer can find where it is.
stronger
But who is stronger than death? Me , evidently .
eye night light
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.
feet body sophistry
It took the whole of Creation To produce my foot, my each feather: Now I hold Creation in my foot. Or fly up, and revolve it all slowly - I kill where I please because it is all mine. There is no sophistry in my body: My manners are tearing off heads - The allotment of death.
children people walking-dead
That's the paradox: the only time most people feel alive is when they're suffering, when something overwhelms their ordinary, careful armour, and the naked child is flung out onto the world. That's why the things that are worst to undergo are best to remember. But when that child gets buried away under their adaptive and protective shells—he becomes one of the walking dead, a monster.