Quote

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.

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
Sleep
Inaction
Eyes
Hooked
Eye
Kills
Perfect
Wood
Dream
Closed
Woods
Feet
Falsifying
Head
Rehearse

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The sea cries with its meaningless voice, Treating alike its dead and its living
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What happened casually remains -
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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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What happens in the heart simply happens.
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This house has been far out at sea all night, The woods crashing through darkness, the booming hills, Winds stampeding the fields under the window Floundering black astride and blinding wet Till day rose then under an orange sky The hills had new places, and wind wielded Blade-light, luminous black and emerald, Flexing like the lens of a mad eye.
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You are who you choose to be.
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Applause is the beginning of abuse
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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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The brassy wood-pigeons Bubble their colourful voices, and the sun Rises upon a world well-tried and old.
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Haven’t you heard of the music of the spheres?” asked the dragon. “It’s the music that space makes to itself. All the spirits inside all the stars are singing. I’m a star spirit. I sing too. The music of the spheres is what makes space so peaceful.
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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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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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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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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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The wolf is living for the earth.
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The Bush administration doesn't particularly like public participation. It makes them look bad.
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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.
Ted Hughes
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The Iron Man came to the top of the cliff. How far had he walked? Nobody knows. Where did he come from? Nobody knows. How was he made? Nobody knows. Taller than a house the Iron Man stood at the top of the cliff, at the very brink, in the darkness.
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