Bob,

After all the capable crit on so many people's poems my guess is that you
are owed some. So here's my hapworth of tar....don't spend too long washing
it off in the shower....

Say it anyway you want, he LIKED HIS PRIVACY
even as a kid in the tobacconists in Mexborough
or walking through leaves above Mytholmroyd. (NO RE)
Whatever else he did he WAS still the night-watchman,
the bee-keeper, the rose-gardener they'd known; a farmer
WHOSE thin fingers you COULD hardly believe (NO NOW)
yanked out a dead lamb, WHOSE ears still SEEMED to hear
footballers in the Pennine rain, their violent words.
The last salmon he caught IS still in the fridge,(NO AND)
its oil and pink weight collapsing in on itself
until all that remain ARE the BONES, 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.

Some general points: I remember our discussion of place names and that you
argued well. However I wonder if 2 of moderate difficulty prominently placed
near the beginning of the poem might deter some readers. The poem is
marvellously dead pan, like you are talking to your best mate and don't have
to worry too much whether you have their attention. I like the way this poem
isn't extravagant, and doesn't lose touch with the ordinary details of Ted
Hughes's life - I assume it is about Ted Hughes. However famous you become,
you never stop being a person with the concerns that people generally have.
How would the poem come across if it wasn't about TH? How about "Uncle
Fred's last bath". I suspect that it would come across as rather bland and
unlikely to bring people into poetry that weren't already interested. It's a
difficult topic, not one that I would have the courage to take on, because
the achievements of the man are in the way. To a certain extent you have to
rely on the reader to bring their knowledge of TH with them and the poem may
be energised because of this. In this sense it is a poet's poem, or if you
like, for people like us. I suspect that many people with less of an
interest might miss the titular Ted.

I have one more worry and that is the personal nature of the depiction -the
very thing that your art has brought out. That really is somebody's Uncle
Ted, I assume. Certainly somebody's father. I don't know if some relative of
mine had turned his brogues to the sky, I'm not sure that I would want
someone going over whatever expletives he may or may not have uttered after
his last bath. I suppose its a bit like the debate over those shrivelled
bare-breasted mummies hauled out of the Atacama desert for public scrutiny
in a museum. Are they public property? At any rate they are thousands of
years old. Not saying it isn't common practice, etc


Colin


----- 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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