Hi catherine,
Thanks for your comments on this.
It's a poem I originally scribbled as a kind of knee jerk reation when Huge
Ted died. I think it got its first draft after reading the weekend
obituaries. Then it was only the recent Plathey poems that made me remember
it and look at it again. I should have looked more closely, I guess: the
typo glared at me when I saw it facing me from TheWorks!
I found, before I wrote it - and after - that I'm probably more interested
in the anecdotes about each of them than their poetry! But I think I "could"
put up an arguement that states that Hughes gave a new way of writing nature
poetry, a new language, and anyone mentioning foxes or crows or sheep or
salmon (!) has now to think very carefully before they finish their pieces.
I guess I had parts of the later Hughes' book The River in my mind - and
passages where the fish are speaking/whispering - when my words started
looking into his fridge and that's what prodded the language line out as
well...
Bob
>From: catherine JF <[log in to unmask]>
>Reply-To: The Pennine Poetry Works <[log in to unmask]>
>To: [log in to unmask]
>Subject: Re: Huge Ted's Last Morning
>Date: Wed, 14 Jul 2004 09:50:07 +0000
>
>Hello Bob - I try to separate my thoughts about the Plath / Hughes marriage
>from my reactions to their poetry. I am first and foremost a Plathophile
>but I appreciate the earthy power of Hughes's work.
>
>This is a good poem. I wondered if who's instead of whose was deliberate?
>The only line I wasn't comfortable with was
>
>until all that remains is the language he gave us
>
>I felt it was already implicit in the poem and felt flat after the
>wonderful image of the salmon collapsing in on itself.
>
>I've just noticed that you did a rewrite of this so will read that too!
>
>Best wishes
>
>Catherine
>
>
>>
>>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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