Owl's Song
Ted Hughes


He sang
How the swan blanched forever
How the wolf threw away its telltale heart
And the stars dropped their pretence
The air gave up appearances
Water went deliberately numb
The rock surrendered its last hope
And cold died beyond knowledge

He sang
How everything had nothing more to lose

Then sat still with fear

Seeing the clawtrack of star
Hearing the wingbeat of rock

And his own singing

Robin Song
Ted Hughes


I am the hunted king
     Of the frost and big icicles
          And the bogey cold
          With its wind boots.

I am the uncrowned
     Of the rainworld
          Hunted by lightning and thunder
          And rivers.

I am the lost child
     Of the wind
          Who goes through me looking for something else
          Who can't recognize me though I cry.

I am the maker
     Of the world
          That rolls to crush
          And silence my knowledge.

Crow and the Birds
Ted Hughes


When the eagle soared clear through a dawn distilling of emerald
When the curlew trawled in seadusk through a chime of wineglasses
When the swallow swooped through a woman's song in a cavern
And the swift flicked through the breath of a violet

When the owl sailed clear of tomorrow's conscience
And the sparrow preened himself of yesterday's promise
And the heron laboured clear of the Bessemer upglare
And the bluetit zipped clear of lace panties
And the woodpecker drummed clear of the rotovator and the rose-farm
And the peewit tumbled clear of the laundromat

While the bullfinch plumped in the apple bud
And the goldfinch bulbed in the sun
And the wryneck crooked in the moon
And the dipper peered from the dewball

Crow spraddled head-down in the beach-garage, guzzling a dropped ice-cream.

Examination at the Womb-door
Ted Hughes


Who owns these scrawny little feet?      Death.
Who owns this bristly scorched-looking face?      Death.
Who owns these still-working lungs?      Death.
Who owns this utility coat of muscles?      Death.
Who owns these unspeakable guts?      Death.
Who owns these questionable brains?      Death.
All this messy blood?      Death.
These minimum-efficiency eyes?      Death.
This wicked little tongue?      Death.
This occasional wakefulness?      Death.

Given, stolen, or held pending trial?
Held.

Who owns this whole rainy, stony earth?      Death.
Who owns all of space?      Death.

Who is stronger than hope?      Death.
Who is stronger than the will?      Death.
Stronger than love?      Death.
Stronger than life?      Death.

But who is stronger than death?
                                                  Me, evidently.


Pass, Crow.

Lineage
Ted Hughes


In the beginning was Scream
Who begat Blood
Who begat Eye
Who begat Fear
Who begat Wing
Who begat Bone
Who begat Granite
Who begat Violet
Who begat Guitar
Who begat Sweat
Who begat Adam
Who begat Mary
Who begat God
Who begat Nothing
Who begat Never
Never Never Never

Who begat Crow

Screaming for Blood
Grubs, crusts
Anything

Trembling featherless elbows in the nest's filth

Two Legends
Ted Hughes


I
Black was the without eye
Black the within tongue
Black was the heart
Black the liver, black the lungs
Unable to suck in light
Black the blood in its loud tunnel
Black the bowels packed in furnace
Black too the muscles
Striving to pull out into the light
Black the nerves, black the brain
With its tombed visions
Black also the soul, the huge stammer
Of the cry that, swelling, could not
Pronounce its sun.

II
Black is the wet otter's head, lifted.
Black is the rock, plunging in foam.
Black is the gall lying on the bed of the blood.

Black is the earth-globe, one inch under,
An egg of blackness
Where sun and moon alternate their weathers

To hatch a crow, a black rainbow
Bent in emptiness
                            over emptiness

But flying

If I Wanted A Boat
Mary Oliver


I would want a boat, if I wanted a
boat, that bounded hard on the waves,
that didn't know starboard from port
and wouldn't learn, than welcomed
dolphins and headed straight for the
whales, that, when rocks were close,
would slide in for a touch or two,
that wouldn't keep land in sight and
went fast, that leaped into the spray.
What kind of life is it always to plan
and do, to promise and finish, to wish
for the near and the safe? Yes, by the
heavens, if I wanted a boat I would want
a boat I couldn't steer.