Photo Source: Time.com - http://www.time.com/time/arts/article/0,8599,1598800,00.html
As a Sylvia Plath fanatic, I, of course, read poetry by her daughter, Frieda Hughes. In addition to writing poetry, Frieda Hughes is a visual artist and writes fiction (for both adults and children). You can view a complete compilation of her work and accomplishments at her official website: http://www.friedahughes.com/
Today, I’m going to share a few powerful poems from her collection, Wooroloo, which was first published in 1998.
Farmer
Slim, beautiful thing he was, like a dropped angel.
Eyes huge, set amazed in his face,
He wondered at the universe.
Strange man, tree watching.
She caught him young. Hollow vessel;
She saw his ownership of things, and wanted.
Saw his weaknesses early, nailed him to the floor
With an unexpected daughter.
Hooked, like a mouth-torn trout,
He was held fast by the cry and spit
Of little childhood begun so sudden, so surprised.
Mother felt her job was done.
Had used her womb like a weapon. Now her words
Beat him down, he was harvested in his own fields.
His bruises bloomed, those blue roses sank their stain
Beneath his surface, made him dumb with pain.
He learned to be silent.
In his head he hid. Green grew there,
Rocks cracked hot in the sun, his landscape
Was knitted by lizards and boulders of sheep.
She could not find him or snap a bone
With the thought that made her child,
It became her stone. Its heaviness outweighed her.
At last, she left him,
Strange man, tree watching.
Tiger
Tiger is born of tiger.
Looks like tiger.
Eats the same meat,
Does not complain
About its stripes.
The black slices on
Auburn red flashes
Like sun splitting thin
Black slate.
Does not complain
It looks the same.
It eats to become
Its father, to become
Its mother.
The Smile
The holes that filtered you before,
Like swamp dogs, open mouthed, are sleeping.
Their mud has sunk between your fault lines
And their bed
Rocks at the end of your corridor.
Meat eaten, the bones have dried.
Blood dust has settled like powder
With plaster from the ceiling,
And the tools are silent.
Your blunt end tries to find
A home in my face,
And your sun shines.
No Other Appetite 