A Poem for Sunday
Here’s an evocative little poem by Ted Hughes. It’s not my favorite of his work (like a lot of people I find Hawk Roosting to be truly perfect), but it’s still, I think, a good example of the simple, direct power of his poetry.
O littleblood, hiding from the mountains in the mountains
Wounded by stars and leaking shadow
Eating the medical earth.
O littleblood, little boneless little skinless
Ploughing with a linnet’s carcase
Reaping the wind and threshing the stones.
O littleblood, drumming in a cow’s skull
Dancing with a gnat’s feet
With an elephant’s nose with a crocodile’s tail.
Grown so wise grown so terrible
Sucking death’s mouldy tits.
Sit on my finger, sing in my ear, O littleblood.