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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.

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
Casts
Pike
Held
Stilled
Depth
Nightfall
England
Dared
Deep
Legendary
Past
Stir
Immense
Cast

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Nobody knew the Iron Man had fallen. Night passed.
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It took the whole of Creation To produce my foot, my each feather: Now I hold Creation in my foot. Or fly up, and revolve it all slowly - I kill where I please because it is all mine. There is no sophistry in my body: My manners are tearing off heads - The allotment of death.
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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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Applause is the beginning of abuse
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where are the gods the gods hate us the gods have run away the gods have hidden in holes the gods are dead of the plague they rot and stink too there never were any gods there’s only death
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What happened casually remains -
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What happens in the heart simply happens.
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So the self under the eye lies, Attendant and withdrawn.
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I shall also take you forth and carve our names together in a yew tree, haloed with stars.
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The brassy wood-pigeons Bubble their colourful voices, and the sun Rises upon a world well-tried and old.
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The wolf is living for the earth.
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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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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.
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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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Do as you like with me. I'm your parcel. I have only our address on me. Open me, or readdress me.
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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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What’s writing really about? It’s about trying to take fuller possession of the reality of your life.
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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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The jaws' hooked clamp and fangs Not to be changed at this date A life subdued to its instrument.
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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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