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🗓️ 28 August 2024
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Ted Hughes, one of the giants of twentieth-century British poetry, was born in Mytholmroyd, Yorkshire. After serving in the Royal Air Force, Hughes attended Cambridge, where he studied archeology and anthropology and took a special interest in myths and legends. In 1956, he met and married the American poet Sylvia Plath, who encouraged him to submit his manuscript to a first-book contest run by the Poetry Center. Awarded first prize by judges Marianne Moore, W. H. Auden, and Stephen Spender, The Hawk in the Rain (Faber & Faber, 1957) secured Hughes’s reputation as a poet of international stature. According to poet and critic Robert B. Shaw,Â
Hughes’s poetry signaled a dramatic departure from the prevailing modes of the period. The stereotypical poem of the time was determined not to risk too much: politely domestic in its subject matter, understated and mildly ironic in style. By contrast, Hughes marshaled a language of nearly Shakespearean resonance to explore themes which were mythic and elemental.
Hughes remained a controversial figure after Plath’s suicide left him as her literary executor and he refused (citing family privacy) to publish many of her papers. Nevertheless, his long career included unprecedented best-selling volumes such as Lupercal (Faber & Faber, 1960), Crow (Faber & Faber, 1970), Selected Poems 1957–1981 (Faber & Faber, 1982), and Birthday Letters (Faber & Faber, 1998), as well as many beloved children’s books, including The Iron Man (Faber & Faber, 1968), which was adapted as The Iron Giant (1999). With Seamus Heaney, he edited the popular anthologies The Rattle Bag (Faber & Faber, 1982) and The School Bag (Faber & Faber, 1997). Hughes was named executor of Plath’s literary estate and he edited several volumes of her work. Hughes also translated works from classical authors, including Ovid and Aeschylus. Hughes was appointed Britain’s Poet Laureate in 1984, a post he held until his death in 1998. Among his many awards, he was appointed to the Order of Merit, one of Britain’s highest honors.
Hughes married Carol Orchard in 1970, and the couple lived on a small farm in Devon until his death. His forays into translations, essays, and criticism were noted for their intelligence and range. Hughes continued writing and publishing poems until his death from cancer on October 28, 1998. A memorial to Hughes in the famed Poets’ Corner of Westminster Abbey was unveiled in 2011.
-bio via Poetry Foundation
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0:00.0 | Welcome back to The Daily Poem, a podcast from Goldberry Studios. I'm Sean Johnson, and today is Wednesday, August 28th, 2004. Today's poem is by Ted Hughes, and it's called The Thought Fox. This poem strikes me as very similar to yesterday's poem. That's one of the reasons I ended up putting them side by side. |
0:23.2 | I'll leave some of the comparative judgment up to you. Here is the poem. I'll read it once, |
0:28.9 | offer a few comments, and then read it one more time. The Thought Fox. |
0:37.2 | I imagine this midnight moments forest. |
0:40.7 | Something else is alive, |
0:42.6 | beside the clock's loneliness |
0:44.0 | and this blank page where my fingers move. |
0:47.5 | Through the window I see no star. |
0:49.6 | Something more near, |
0:51.0 | though deeper within darkness, |
0:52.5 | is entering the loneliness. Cold, delicately is the dark snow. |
0:58.8 | A fox's nose touches twig, leaf. Two eyes serve a movement that now and again now and now, |
1:07.0 | and now sets neat prints into the snow between trees and warily a lame shadow lags by stump |
1:15.5 | and in hollow of a body that is bold to come across clearings an eye a widening deepening greenness |
1:23.4 | brilliantly concentratedly coming about its own business, till, with a sudden sharp, hot, |
1:30.4 | stink of fox, it enters the dark hole of the head. The window is starless still. The clock ticks. |
1:38.1 | The page is printed. |
1:50.9 | So we have here another kind of extended metaphor for the creative enterprise, |
1:59.5 | except that this one is more directly about authorial inspiration. |
2:05.4 | There are some well-used symbols here that don't advertise themselves as symbols in an obnoxious way. The stars in the sky, for example, or the lack |
2:12.0 | thereof. Stars are often a symbol or a sign of heavenly inspiration, the angelic illumination, the light of the muses comes down and shines upon the artist as he creates. |
2:28.0 | Here, there is none of that. There is no obvious source of inspiration advertising itself to us, the reader, or to the poet. |
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