Faber and Faber Ltd. Turret Books a monologue for tree voices Winter Trees, London: Her New York life is crowded with possibilities, so that the choice of future is overwhelming, but she can no longer retreat into the safety of her past.
Brilliantly, concentratedly, Coming about its own business. It is so close now that its two eyes have merged into a single green glare which grows wider and wider as the fox comes nearer, its eyes heading directly towards ours: The fox Ted hughes s poems the lair of the head as it would enter its own lair, bringing with it the hot, sensual, animal reek of its body and all the excitement and power of the achieved vision.
The fox is no longer a formless stirring somewhere in the dark depths of the bodily imagination; it has been coaxed out of the darkness and into full consciousness.
It is no longer nervous and vulnerable, but at home in the lair of the head, safe from extinction, perfectly created, its being caught for ever on the page.
And all this has been done purely by the imagination. For in reality there is no fox at all, and outside, in the external darkness, nothing has changed: In this particular instance it seems to me that the simile Sagar uses betrays him into an inappropriate critical response His comparison may be apt in one respect, for it is certainly true that there is a powerful element of magic in the poem.
But this magic has little to do with party-conjurors who pull rabbits out of top-hats.
It is more like the sublime and awesome magic which is contained in the myth of creation, where God creates living beings out of nothingness by the mere fiat of his imagination.
It cannot even die in its own mortal, animal way. It will live for ever, it will never suffer from hunger or hounds. I have it with me wherever I go.
And I made it. This feeling of uneasiness is heightened by the last stanza of the poem. If, at the end of the poem, there is one sense in which the fox is vividly and immediately alive, it is only because it has been pinned so artfully upon the page. The very accuracy of the evocation of the fox seems at times almost fussily obsessive.
Lawrence, who was also an intellectual in rebellion against his own rationalism, a puritan who never ceased to quarrel with his own puritanism.
Lawrence has a much greater respect for the integrity and independence of the animals he writes about. And at the end of the poem he is able, as it were, retrospectively to allow his dark sexual, sensual, animal alter ego to crawl off into the bowels of the earth, there to reign alone and supreme in a kingdom where Lawrence recognises he can have no part.
And so he pins the fox upon the page with the cruel purity of artistic form and locates its lair inside his own head. On the one hand there is in his work an extraordinary sensuous and sensual generosity which coexists with a sense of abundance and a capacity for expressing tenderness which are unusual in contemporary poetry.
On the other hand his poetry — and above all his poetry in Crow — is notorious for the raging intensity of its violence, a violence which, by some critics at least, has been seen as destructive of all artistic and human values. But, as I have tried to show, the conflict may still be discerned.
The fox itself does not flinch or deviate from its course. It is on these conditions alone, perhaps, that its sensuality can be accepted by the poet without anxiety.Poem Hunter all poems of by Ted Hughes poems.
29 poems of Ted Hughes. Still I Rise, The Road Not Taken, If You Forget Me, Dreams, Annabel Lee. Buy Verses of the Poets Laureate: from John Dryden to Andrew Motion, by Phillis Levin (Editor) and Andrew Motion (Introduction): describes and shows the work of the first 19 poets appointed as Poet Laureate since Charles II created the first in Hughes did not write again for years, as he focused all of his energy on editing and promoting Plath’s poems.
He was also roundly lambasted by the public, who saw him as responsible for his wife’s suicide. Ted Hughes () was born in Yorkshire.
His first book, The Hawk in the Rain, was published in by Faber and Faber and was followed by many volumes of poetry and prose for adults and children, including The Iron Man (). On page of his biography of Ted Hughes, Jonathan Bate paraphrases a racy passage from the journal Sylvia Plath kept in the last months of her life: On the day that she found Yeats’s house in Fitzroy Road, she rushed round in a fever of excitement to tell Al [Alvarez].
That evening, she noted. In the autumn of , only four months before her death in February , Sylvia Plath wrote a cluster of extraordinary poems about Bees. She had taken up beekeeping that June and wrote excitedly to her mother in America to describe the events of attending a local beekeepers’ meeting in the Devon village of North Tawton, where she had moved with her husband, Ted Hughes, and their young.