I Could Almost Be Back In Mytholmroyd

Listening to - Tehillim - Steve Reich

I forgot to write anything about Tuesday Night's Homeground program about Ted and Sylvia. Well we both knew it was only half an hour but my wife said she wanted another hour and a half. Pragmatically you cannot expect two hours about poetry on the mainstream channels. Maybe you could get away with it on BBC4 especially with the film and recent revival of interest. Just how much interest in poetry is out there? I suppose I work with people who you would not expect to be word-monsters and most of them have only just heard of Hughes. I could be evangelical about this but that seems like dangerous obsession, a desire for the sheer, damn romanticism of the whole thing. I like to think I started reading Plath before I knew of the story of her and Hughes; I am sure I did and I always knew of Hughes because of the Iron Man and the Crow poems. Then again there is the single event which gives me my green light into the whole messy tragedy. None of this says anything about the programme does it? The presenter was Ian McMillan a man with a light fluffy exterior and a dark heart that Conrad could die for. He brought to life some of Hughes' poetry in a way that I missed when reading it. Poetry is so obviously meant to be read out loud and Hughes' stuff needs a Yorkshireman to do it. I am trying to find Fallgrief's Girlfriends online for you so you can try it but unlike Sylvia, all of Ted's important stuff seems to be missing. Have this one instead; it might not be as meaningful as that great seduction but it sums up a small incident with an economy that is breathtaking.

I have poems falling out of me at the moment. I have asked my wife whether they are just rubbish, a triumph of quantity rather than quality but she just replies that she does not fully understand them but that they read well. I feel confident enough to list this one. You need to look at the picture to get it fully and I hope you will determine how serious it is from the quote under the title.

Adoration

"Romani ite domum"

The bright awarded background,
turns lighter with its subject.
Each sword, disarmed, takes starlight,
sends it back to heaven,
undiminished, withered by this child.
And here the censer, upright now,
the trademark, the gift, the wealth
of merchants and of kings.

And ground is broken, furrowed
by the weight of all that is to come
and in this ground, the animals
have become one with men.
And the light is painted evenly,
no heavy glass constructions,
no gold rays but blue and gentle,
natural, maternal light.

This fractured city,
crow-branch black,
is bowed with armies,
bent and hungry,
fed with air
and black bread.
The dissipation
makes all sound
a reckless shriek,
the battering of mind
and billeted revenge.

The march of sandals
on the bridges
roads and track,
the leather slap
and burn of vinegar
has shown your end.

This is not typical of the current output; indeed it was done as an exercise when I couldn't think of anything to write about. Well there you go.