Ted Hughes
Ted Hughes
Ted Hughes
Ted Hughes
Ted Hughes
Ted Hughes
Ted Hughes
Ted Hughes
Ted Hughes
Ted Hughes
Ted Hughes
Ted Hughes
Ted Hughes
Ted Hughes
Ted Hughes
Ted Hughes
Ted Hughes
Ted Hughes
Ted Hughes
Ted Hughes
Ted Hughes
Ted Hughes
Ted Hughes
Ted Hughes
Ted Hughes
Ted Hughes
Ted Hughes
Ted Hughes
Ted Hughes
Aged Mother, Mary, even though - when that thing
Leaped hedge in the dark lane (or grabbed your heel
On the attic stair) by smell of man and coarse
Canvas he wore was disguised too well-ill
A scorching and dizzying blue apparition; -
Though that Jack Horner's hedge-scratched pig-splitting arm,
Grubbing his get among your lilies, was a comet
That plunged through the flowery whorl to your womb-root,
And grew a man's face face on its burning head; -
Through no prompt thundercrack, no knave's remorse
Kneeling in the arch of lightning, fisting his guilt,
But the times quiet with God's satisfaction; -
Through you swallowed the honey of a parable,
No forced fistful of meat-and-potato fact -
History's grown gross-bellied, not bright-eyed.
Complaint was written by Ted Hughes.