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The Shell The sea fills my ear with sand and with fear. You may wash out the sand, but never the sound of the ghost of the sea that is haunting me.

Ted Hughes

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Ted Hughes
Age: 68 †
Born: 1930
Born: August 17
Died: 1998
Died: October 28
Astrologer
Author
Novelist
Playwright
Poet
Science Fiction Writer
Translator
Writer
Edward James Hughes
Ted Hughes
Ghost
Ears
Sea
Haunting
Sound
Shell
Fear
Fills
May
Wash
Never
Shells
Sand

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The Bush administration doesn't particularly like public participation. It makes them look bad.
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The only calibration that counts is how much heart people invest, how much they ignore their fears of being hurt or caught out or humiliated. And the only thing people regret is that they didn't live boldly enough, that they didn't invest enough heart, didn't love enough. Nothing else really counts at all.
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I sit in the top of the wood, my eyes closed. Inaction, no falsifying dream Between my hooked head and hooked feet: Or in sleep rehearse perfect kills and eat.
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The wolf is living for the earth.
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What happens in the heart simply happens.
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Fishing provides that connection with the whole living world. It gives you the opportunity of being totally immersed, turning back into yourself in a good way. A form of meditation, some form of communion with levels of yourself that are deeper than the ordinary self.
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The sea cries with its meaningless voice, Treating alike its dead and its living
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Nobody wanted your dance, Nobody wanted your strange glitter, your floundering Drowning life and your effort to save yourself, Treading water, dancing the dark turmoil, Looking for something to give.
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What happened casually remains -
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You are who you choose to be.
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He was his own leftover, the spat-out scrag. He was what his brain could make nothing of.
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Applause is the beginning of abuse
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The world's decay where the wind's hands have passed, And my head, worn out with love, at rest In my hands, and my hands full of dust.
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What’s writing really about? It’s about trying to take fuller possession of the reality of your life.
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Nobody knew the Iron Man had fallen. Night passed.
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But who is stronger than death? Me , evidently .
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The inmost spirit of poetry, in other words, is at bottom, in every recorded case, the voice of pain – and the physical body, so to speak, of poetry, is the treatment by which the poet tries to reconcile that pain with the world.
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Stilled legendary depth: It was as deep as England. It held Pike too immense to stir, so immense and old That past nightfall I dared not cast.
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He could not stand. It was not That he could not thrive, he was born With everything but the will – That can be deformed, just like a limb. Death was more interesting to him. Life could not get his attention.
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So the self under the eye lies, Attendant and withdrawn.
Ted Hughes