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
brain spats
He was his own leftover, the spat-out scrag. He was what his brain could make nothing of.
letters antiques talent
You could become internationally famous - you're Gemini, and according to antique authority have a literary talent, which of course your letters prove.
hands wind dust
The world's decay where the wind's hands have passed, And my head, worn out with love, at rest In my hands, and my hands full of dust.
darkness doe cold
The deeps are cold: In that darkness camaraderie does not hold: Nothing touches but, clutching, devours.
spring ideas giving
One day God felt he ought to give his workshop a spring clean... It was amazing what ragged bits and pieces came from under his workbench as he swept. Beginnings of creatures, bits that looked useful but had seemed wrong, ideas he'd mislaid and forgotten... There was even a tiny lump of sun. He scratched his head. What could be done with all this rubbish?
dawn shows
Show him every dawn & read to him endlessly.
healing etcetera narrative
Prose, narratives, etcetera, can carry healing. Poetry does it more intensely.
sea voice cry
The sea cries with its meaningless voice, Treating alike its dead and its living
opportunity self fishing
Fishing provides that connection with the whole living world. It gives you the opportunity of being totally immersed, turning back into yourself in a good way. A form of meditation, some form of communion with levels of yourself that are deeper than the ordinary self.
real needs strange
The real mystery is this strange need. Why can't we just hide it and shut up? Why do we have to blab? Why do human beings need to confess?
inspiring one-day-at-a-time you-choose
You are who you choose to be.
voice world woods
The brassy wood-pigeons Bubble their colourful voices, and the sun Rises upon a world well-tried and old.
real rivers people
And that's how we measure out our real respect for people—by the degree of feeling they can register, the voltage of life they can carry and tolerate—and enjoy. End of sermon. As Buddha says: live like a mighty river. And as the old Greeks said: live as though all your ancestors were living again through you.
running hate stink
where are the gods the gods hate us the gods have run away the gods have hidden in holes the gods are dead of the plague they rot and stink too there never were any gods there’s only death