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Date(s) - 03/07/2019 - 03/13/2019
12:00 am

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And finally, another poet greets this month of promise . . .

March Morning Unlike Others

          by Ted Hughes

Blue haze. Bees hanging in the air at the hive-mouth.

Crawling in prone stupor of sun

on the hive-lip. Snowdrops. Two buzzards,

still-wings, each

magnetized to the other,

float orbits.

Cattle standing warm. Lit, happy stillness.

A raven, under the hill,

coughing among bare oaks.

Aircraft, elated, splitting blue.

Leisure to stand. The knee-deep mud at the trough

stiffening. Lambs freed to be foolish.

The earth invalid, dropsied, bruised, wheeled

out into the sun,

after the frightful operation.

She lies back, wounds undressed to the sun,

to be healed,

sheltered from the sneapy chill creeping North wind,

leans back, eyes closed, exhausted, smiling

into the sun. Perhaps dozing a little.

While we sit, and smile, and wait, and know

she is not going to die.

Ted Hughes (1930 – 1998) was one of the giants of twentieth-century British poetry. According to poet and critic Robert B. Shaw, “Hughes’s poetry signaled a dramatic departure from the prevailing modes of the period. The stereotypical poem of the time was determined not to risk too much: politely domestic in its subject matter, understated and mildly ironic in style. By contrast, Hughes marshaled a language of nearly Shakespearean resonance to explore themes which were mythic and elemental.” Hughes was married to the American poet Sylvia Plath.