رسائل عيد الميلاد مجموعة قصائد شعرية Ted Hughes

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رسائل عيد الميلاد مجموعة قصائد شعرية  by  Ted Hughes

رسائل عيد الميلاد مجموعة قصائد شعرية by Ted Hughes
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Ted Hughess Birthday Letters--88 tantalizing responses to Sylvia Plath and the furies she left behind--emerge from an echo chamber of art and memory, rage and representation. In the decades following his wifes 1963 suicide, Hughes kept silent, aMoreTed Hughess Birthday Letters--88 tantalizing responses to Sylvia Plath and the furies she left behind--emerge from an echo chamber of art and memory, rage and representation.

In the decades following his wifes 1963 suicide, Hughes kept silent, a stance many have seen as guilty, few as dignified. While an industry grew out of Plaths life and art, and even her afterlife, he continued to compose his own dark, unconfessional verses, and edited her Collected Poems, Letters Home: Correspondence 1950-1963, and Journals. But Hughess conservancy (and his sister Olwyns power as Plaths executrix) laid him open to yet more blame. Biographers and critics found his cuts to her letters self-interested, and decried his destruction of the journals of her final years--undertaken, he insisted, for the sake of their children.

In Birthday Letters we now have Hughess response to Plaths white-hot mythologizing. Lost happiness intensifies present pain, but so does old despair: Your ghost, he acknowledges, inseparable from my shadow. Ranging from accessible short-story-like verses to tightly wound, allusive lyrics, the poems push forward from initial encounters to key moments long after Plaths death.

In Visit, he writes, I look up--as if to meet your voice / With all its urgent future / that has burst in on me. Then look back / At the book of the printed words. / You are ten years dead. It is only a story. / Your story. My story. These poems are filled with conditionals and might-have-beens, Hughes never letting us forget forces in motion before their seven-year marriage and final separation.

When he first sees Plath, she is both scarred (from her earlier suicide attempt) and radiant: Your eyes / Squeezed in your face, a crush of diamonds, / Incredibly bright, bright as a crush of tears... But Fate and Plaths father, Otto, will not let them be. In the very next poem, The Shot, her trajectory is already plotted. Though Hughes is her victim, her real target is her dead father--the god with the smoking gun.Of course, The Shot and the accusatory The Dogs Are Eating Your Mother are an incitement to those who side (as if there is a side!) with Plath.

Newsweek has already chalked up the reaction of poet and feminist Robin Morgan to the book: My teeth began to grind uncontrollably. But Hughes makes it clear that his poems are written for his dead wife and living children, not her acolytes bloodsport. He has also, of course, written them for himself and the reader. Pieces such as Epiphany, The 59th Bear, and Life After Death are masterful mixes of memory and image. In Epiphany, for instance, the young Hughes, walking in London, suddenly spots a man carrying a fox inside his jacket.

Offered the cub for a pound, he hesitates, knowing he and Plath couldnt handle the animal--not with a new baby, not in the city. But in an instant, his potent vision extends beyond the animal, perhaps to his and Plaths children:Already past the kittenishBut the eyes still small,Round, orphaned-looking, woebegoneAs if with weeping.

BereftOf the blue milk, the toys of feather and fur,The den lifes happy dark. And the huge whisperOf the constellationsOut of which Mother had always returned. Other poems are more influenced by Plaths terrible, hypersensitive fingers, including The Bee God and Dreamers, which is apparently a record of Plaths one encounter with Hughess mistress: She fascinated you.

Her eyes caressed you, / Melted a weeping glitter at you. / Her German the dark undercurrent / In her Kensington jewellers elocution / Was your ancestral Black Forest whisper-- This exotic woman, slightly filthy with erotic mystery, seems a close relation to Plaths own Lady Lazarus, and the poem would be equally powerful without any biographical information. This is the one paradoxical pity of this superb collection. These poems require no prior knowledge--but for better or worse, we possess it.



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