Yes a fitting tribute to the poet who seemed carved from his native rock.
I was in Mytholmroyd on Monday, the Calder valley is narrow there and the
sides steep. One can feel poetry is to be cut from the rock there.  He is
not buried with Sylvia, and his parents are in the same ground as she, or at
least close by. Where is he buried? Does anyone know?? Arthur.
----- Original Message -----
From: "Bob Cooper" <[log in to unmask]>
To: <[log in to unmask]>
Sent: Tuesday, August 05, 2003 6:29 PM
Subject: Huge Ted's Last Morning


OK this isn't one that's just been written. But I've just had a shower and
remembered I'd got it somewhere between the lather and the rinse. It's an
occasional piece, written a week after the guy died, but it's not really had
an airing since... and I only remembered it because of grasshopper's bee
poem! I guess, as with all occsional pieces, they can sometimes feel like
yesterday's bread. But, whaddya think...
Oh, and there's a four-letter-word near the end! So, if you need to be, be
warned...
For C&C:

Huge Ted's Last Morning

Say it anyway you want, he was abundantly private
even as a kid in the tobacconists in Mexborough
or re-walking through leaves above Mytholmroyd.
Whatever else he did he's still the night-watchman,
the bee-keeper, the rose-gardener they'd known; a farmer
who's now thin fingers you can hardly believe
yanked out a dead lamb, who's ears still seem to hear
footballers in the Pennine rain, their violent words.
And the last salmon he caught's still in the fridge,
its oil and pink weight collapsing in on itself
until all that remains is the language he gave us,
the books we'll re-open, and the deep-vowelled
fuck, said with the nakedness of an old man
lifted from the bath for the last time.

Bob Cooper

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