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Crow: From the Life and Songs of the Crow
First edition. A remarkable sequence of poems by Ted Hughes. Slightly rubbed on the spine with light offsetting on endpapers. 80 pages. cloth, title gilt-stamped on spine, dust jacket. 8vo..
80 pages, Hardcover
First published October 1, 1970
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About the author
Ted Hughes
313books711followersEdward James Hughes was an English poet, translator, and children's writer. Critics frequently rank him as one of the best poets of his generation and one of the twentieth century's greatest writers. He was appointed Poet Laureate in 1984 and held the office until his death. In 2008, The Times ranked Hughes fourth on its list of "The 50 greatest British writers since 1945".
He married fellow poet Sylvia Plath in 1956, and they lived together in the United States and then in England, in a tumultuous relationship. They had two children before separating in 1962 and Plath ended her own life in 1963.
He married fellow poet Sylvia Plath in 1956, and they lived together in the United States and then in England, in a tumultuous relationship. They had two children before separating in 1962 and Plath ended her own life in 1963.
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August 18, 2013
Timeline
Suicide of Ted Hughes’s wife Sylvia Plath, 1963
Suicide of Ted Hughes� current partner Assia Wevill, 1969
Publication of Crow, 1970
This is the context for the screeching brutality, ugliness and relentless howling nastiness of Crow and its picture of humanity as the scraping of nails on the blackboard of creation and consciousness as worse than anthrax.
Crow is really severe stuff.
Crow is horror poetry.
When Crow cried his mother’s ear
Scorched to a stump.
In the poems, Crow is many things � sometimes he appears to be Hughes himself; sometimes the well known trickster, Loki or someone similar, cavorting, disgusted by everything, meddling, cocking things up, himself a scrawny reeking speck of gristle and greasy black feathers with a vast appetite and completely unkillable; and sometimes he’s a kind of reverse Christ (with black feathers).
I love Ted Hughes� animal poetry, which includes plenty of carnage but taken as a whole is a tremendous celebration, the nature channel fused with Thomas Traherne. But Crow has no compassion, no pity. He's done with that.
Crow’s Account of the Battle
The cartridges were banging off, as planned,
The fingers were keeping things going
According to excitement and orders.
The unhurt eyes were full of deadliness.
The bullets pursued their courses
Through clods of stone, earth, and skin,
Through intestines pocket-books, brains, hair, teeth
According to Universal laws
And mouths cried "Mamma"
From sudden traps of calculus,
Theorems wrenched men in two,
Shock-severed eyes watched blood
Squandering as from a drain-pipe
Into the blanks between the stars.
Faces slammed down into clay
As for the making of a life-mask
Knew that even on the sun's surface
They could not be learning more or more to the point
Reality was giving it's lesson,
Its mishmash of scripture and physics,
With here, brains in hands, for example,
And there, legs in a treetop.
There was no escape except into death.
And still it went on--it outlasted
Many prayers, many a proved watch
Many bodies in excellent trim,
Till the explosives ran out
And sheer weariness supervened
And what was left looked round at what was left.
Crow cannot die, his suffering which is only briefly drowned out by his laughter can’t die and it seems has no purpose. There’s no comfort to be had.
Some individual poems are quite incomprehensible (Crowego, Robin’s Song, Crow’s Undersong � sometimes the language is pushed too far and melts down into surrealism) but it all fits into this terrifying epic bleak panorama, so I don’t get the unpleasant complete door-slamming incomprehensibility from Crow, even at its most difficult, that I did from Wallace Stevens, and had to give him the elbow, beautiful language and blue guitars and all. Wallace Stevens was too clever for me, like Shoenberg or something. Ted Hughes is more like Captain Beefheart. This is not to compare Stevens and Hughes, because why should you, it’s just that I read both recently.
But I could fly with this disgusting bird, because after another day watching the news or another brilliantly eviscerating movie about just how fucked things actually are, in the poor parts, in the rich parts, and in the soft parts between, Crow is the appropriate response, Crow is what I wish to say. Sometimes you read a book or hear a song and you think: this is mine. It might not be very nice but your blood recognises it immediately : this is mine.
Crow straggled, limply bedraggled his remnant.
He was his own leftover, the spat-out scrag
He was what his brain could make nothing of.
Sometimes weeping, sometimes cawing with laughter, sometimes both, Crow flaps through all our skies.
"Well," said Crow, "What first?"
God, exhausted with Creation, snored.
"Which way?" said Crow, "Which way first?"
God's shoulder was the mountain on which Crow sat.
"Come," said Crow, "Let's discuss the situation."
God lay, agape, a great carcass.
Crow tore off a mouthful and swallowed.
Suicide of Ted Hughes’s wife Sylvia Plath, 1963
Suicide of Ted Hughes� current partner Assia Wevill, 1969
Publication of Crow, 1970
This is the context for the screeching brutality, ugliness and relentless howling nastiness of Crow and its picture of humanity as the scraping of nails on the blackboard of creation and consciousness as worse than anthrax.
Crow is really severe stuff.
Crow is horror poetry.
When Crow cried his mother’s ear
Scorched to a stump.
In the poems, Crow is many things � sometimes he appears to be Hughes himself; sometimes the well known trickster, Loki or someone similar, cavorting, disgusted by everything, meddling, cocking things up, himself a scrawny reeking speck of gristle and greasy black feathers with a vast appetite and completely unkillable; and sometimes he’s a kind of reverse Christ (with black feathers).
I love Ted Hughes� animal poetry, which includes plenty of carnage but taken as a whole is a tremendous celebration, the nature channel fused with Thomas Traherne. But Crow has no compassion, no pity. He's done with that.
Crow’s Account of the Battle
The cartridges were banging off, as planned,
The fingers were keeping things going
According to excitement and orders.
The unhurt eyes were full of deadliness.
The bullets pursued their courses
Through clods of stone, earth, and skin,
Through intestines pocket-books, brains, hair, teeth
According to Universal laws
And mouths cried "Mamma"
From sudden traps of calculus,
Theorems wrenched men in two,
Shock-severed eyes watched blood
Squandering as from a drain-pipe
Into the blanks between the stars.
Faces slammed down into clay
As for the making of a life-mask
Knew that even on the sun's surface
They could not be learning more or more to the point
Reality was giving it's lesson,
Its mishmash of scripture and physics,
With here, brains in hands, for example,
And there, legs in a treetop.
There was no escape except into death.
And still it went on--it outlasted
Many prayers, many a proved watch
Many bodies in excellent trim,
Till the explosives ran out
And sheer weariness supervened
And what was left looked round at what was left.
Crow cannot die, his suffering which is only briefly drowned out by his laughter can’t die and it seems has no purpose. There’s no comfort to be had.
Some individual poems are quite incomprehensible (Crowego, Robin’s Song, Crow’s Undersong � sometimes the language is pushed too far and melts down into surrealism) but it all fits into this terrifying epic bleak panorama, so I don’t get the unpleasant complete door-slamming incomprehensibility from Crow, even at its most difficult, that I did from Wallace Stevens, and had to give him the elbow, beautiful language and blue guitars and all. Wallace Stevens was too clever for me, like Shoenberg or something. Ted Hughes is more like Captain Beefheart. This is not to compare Stevens and Hughes, because why should you, it’s just that I read both recently.
But I could fly with this disgusting bird, because after another day watching the news or another brilliantly eviscerating movie about just how fucked things actually are, in the poor parts, in the rich parts, and in the soft parts between, Crow is the appropriate response, Crow is what I wish to say. Sometimes you read a book or hear a song and you think: this is mine. It might not be very nice but your blood recognises it immediately : this is mine.
Crow straggled, limply bedraggled his remnant.
He was his own leftover, the spat-out scrag
He was what his brain could make nothing of.
Sometimes weeping, sometimes cawing with laughter, sometimes both, Crow flaps through all our skies.
"Well," said Crow, "What first?"
God, exhausted with Creation, snored.
"Which way?" said Crow, "Which way first?"
God's shoulder was the mountain on which Crow sat.
"Come," said Crow, "Let's discuss the situation."
God lay, agape, a great carcass.
Crow tore off a mouthful and swallowed.
August 6, 2022
Šiurpi knyga. Hughesą skaityti, aišku, sunku bent ką nors žinant apie Plath, o žinant visokius pletkus (kaip jis cenzūravo jos dienoraščius, kaip "Varną" parašė po jos savižudybės ir po naujos partnerės savižudybės, ne po šiaip "mirties", kaip rašoma Raros atvarte) yra dar sunkiau. Tikiesi kažko žiauraus ir atšiauraus. Ir tą ir gauni, nu dar su gera doze didybės.
Kas yra tas Varnas, apie kurį ir "nuo" kurio - beveik visi 66 rinkinio eilėraščiai? Skaitydama mačiau tai marozą, tai depresuotą sadistą, tai paprastąjį šeimamaršininką. Gal skaičiau negeru laiku, gal vulgarizavau; bet kuriuo atveju - tai kažkoks jungiškas šešėlis, kuris yra ne romantizuotas Zoro / čiornyj plašč, o ta bjaurioji, nekenčiama, bet vis tiek tavo nuosava dalis. Kurios tu tipo neturi ir esi gera/s ir pūkuota/s, o gal liūdna/s ir banguota/s - bet vis tiek be tos nemalonios dalies, kurios nenori prisimint ar kuri tik sapnuose / smarkiai išgėrus išlenda. Bet va ką nors skaitai ar žiūri, ir supranti, kad yra ir pas tave nemažai tos piktdžiugos, piktavališkumo ir bjaurasties.
Man "Varnas" buvo būtent apie tai - gražus, bet tuo pat metu labai bjaurus, atstumiantis, ir sykiu vis primenantis, kad šiaip ne ant jo, o kažkuo biški ant savęs aš pykstu.
Įspūdingų ir nurašytinų daug, bet bent keletas.
Šitas žiauriai surezonavo su ką tik skaitytais Ditlevsen -
Šitas - tarsi ne tik apie šiandienos karą, bet šiandien labai apie karą -
Vėlgi šiandien labai prakalba, ne tik apie karą, bet ir apie mus kare (tikėjausi, kad čia tas pats savarankiškai klajojantis vypsnys iš pirmo cituoto eilėraščio, bet čia kažkoks kitas vypsnis, gaila) -
Šitas toks papiktintas, labai kinematografinis, ir visas blogis jame sykiu irgi pasidaro labai demonstratyvus in-your-face -
Iš tikrųjų sunku skaityt apie visą tą pyktį ir bjaurastis, sykiu - visiškai priešingai nei, pvz, Rothenbergo - visur matyti kone piktdžiugą ir pompastiką, kylančią iš to blogio. Kitu metu galvočiau, gal čia emo vibes, o dabar, kai blogio kasdien per visus kanalus yra daug - jis tiesiog slegia ir vargina, norisi sakyti Varnui - žinai eik tu šikt, nekenčiu. Kažkodėl atrodo, kad jis tuo džiaugtųsi.
Atskirai parašysiu, kad "Giesmė falui" (per ilga, nenurašysiu) - ne tik eilėraščio, bet ir vertimo meistrystė (vertė Burokas su Plateliu). Pirmi pora posmelių:
Kas yra tas Varnas, apie kurį ir "nuo" kurio - beveik visi 66 rinkinio eilėraščiai? Skaitydama mačiau tai marozą, tai depresuotą sadistą, tai paprastąjį šeimamaršininką. Gal skaičiau negeru laiku, gal vulgarizavau; bet kuriuo atveju - tai kažkoks jungiškas šešėlis, kuris yra ne romantizuotas Zoro / čiornyj plašč, o ta bjaurioji, nekenčiama, bet vis tiek tavo nuosava dalis. Kurios tu tipo neturi ir esi gera/s ir pūkuota/s, o gal liūdna/s ir banguota/s - bet vis tiek be tos nemalonios dalies, kurios nenori prisimint ar kuri tik sapnuose / smarkiai išgėrus išlenda. Bet va ką nors skaitai ar žiūri, ir supranti, kad yra ir pas tave nemažai tos piktdžiugos, piktavališkumo ir bjaurasties.
Man "Varnas" buvo būtent apie tai - gražus, bet tuo pat metu labai bjaurus, atstumiantis, ir sykiu vis primenantis, kad šiaip ne ant jo, o kažkuo biški ant savęs aš pykstu.
Įspūdingų ir nurašytinų daug, bet bent keletas.
Šitas žiauriai surezonavo su ką tik skaitytais Ditlevsen -
VYPSNYS
Buvo kartą vos pastebimas vypsnys.
Ieškojo pastovių namų. Matavosi veidus
Akimirką jiems užsimiršus: tarkime, veidą
Moters stumiančios kūdikį iš tarpkojo
Tik tai netruko ilgai ir veidą
Vyro taip apžavėto
Automobilio avarijos mirksnį
Skriejančių gelžgalių kad visai pamiršo
Savo veidą bet ir tai netruko ilgai, ir veidą
Kulkosvaidininko ilga bet ne per ilga jo papliūpa
Ir veidą aukštalipio likus mirksniui
Iki smūgio į grindinį, veidus
Dviejų meilužių akimirką
Kai jie taip giliai vienas kitame kad visiškai vienas
Kitą pamiršo buvo smagu
Bet ir tai netruko ilgai.
Tuomet vypsnys pasimatavo veidą
Į raudą nugrimzdusio
Veidą žmogžudžio ir kančios akimirkas
Vyro daužančio viską
Ką tik gali pasiekti ir sudaužyti
Kol dar nepaliko kūno.
Jis išbandė veidą
Elektros kėdėj bandė užimti etatą
Mirties amžinybėje, bet ir tas pernelyg suglebo.
Vypsnys
Laikinai sutrikęs, suslūgo
Atgal į kaukolę.
(p. 29-30)
Šitas - tarsi ne tik apie šiandienos karą, bet šiandien labai apie karą -
VARNO TEOLOGIJA
Varnas suprato, kad Dievas jį myli -
Kitaip juk kristų negyvas.
Taigi šitai įrodyta.
Varnas atsilošė, gėrėjosi savo plakančia širdimi.
Ir suvokė, kad Dievas ištarė Varną -
Pats buvimas - tai Jo apreiškimas.
Bet kas
Mylėjo akmenis ir ištarė akmenis?
Juk ir jie turbūt egzistavo.
Ir kas ištarė keistą tylą
Kai numalšo jo klegesys ir krankimas?
Ir kas myli šratus
Byrančius iš pakabintų džiūvančių varnų?
Kas ištarė švino tylą?
Ir suprato Varnas, kad yra du Dievai -
Vienas jų daug didesnis už kitą
Myli savo priešus
Ir ginklai visi jam priklauso.
(p. 38)
Vėlgi šiandien labai prakalba, ne tik apie karą, bet ir apie mus kare (tikėjausi, kad čia tas pats savarankiškai klajojantis vypsnys iš pirmo cituoto eilėraščio, bet čia kažkoks kitas vypsnis, gaila) -
VARNO TUŠTYBĖ
Įdėmiai žvelgdamas į blogio veidrodį Varnas regėjo
Civilizacijų ūkanas bokštus sodus
Mūšius jis nuvalė stiklą bet atsirado
Dangoraižių ūkanos miestų voratinkliai
Pakvėpavo į stiklą patrynė atsirado
Pelkynų paparčiai apkėtė ūkanas
Nuvirveno voras nuvalė stiklą įsižiūrėjo
Tikėjosi šmėstels pažįstamas vypsnis veide
Bet veltui jis kvėpavo per sunkiai
Per karštai o erdvė buvo per šalta
Ir pasirodė tada ūkanų balerinos
Liepsnojančios prarajos kabantys sodai klaiku
(p. 47)
Šitas toks papiktintas, labai kinematografinis, ir visas blogis jame sykiu irgi pasidaro labai demonstratyvus in-your-face -
KVATOJANTIS
Automobiliai susiduria, ištrykšta bagažu ir kūdikiais
Kvatodami
Garlaivis apvirsta, skęsta, saliutuoja kaip kaskadininkas
Kvatodamas
Lėktuvas neria žemyn ir - bum
Kvatodamas
Žmonių rankos ir kojos skraido šen ir ten
Kvatodamos
Nusikamavusi kaukė ant lovos vėl savo kančias atranda
Kvatodama, kvatodama
Meteoritas žiebia -
Na ir nepasisekė - tiesiai į vaiko vežimėlį
Akys ir ausys surištos
Suvystytos plaukuose
Suvyniotos į kilimą, į tapetus, sumazgytos lempos laidu
Tik dantys darbuojasi
Ir širdis šokčioja žiojinčioje oloje
Bejėgiškai pakibusi ant juoko virvelių
Kol nikeliuotos ašaros veržiasi pro duris žvangėdamos
O dejonės kurtina baime
O kaulai
Sprunka nuo kūno laukiančios kankynės
Pastrapalioja kiek ir krenta visų akivaizdoje
Bet juokas vis zuja aplink šimtakojo batais
Vis rieda vikšrais aplink
Kol virsta ant čiužinio kojas iškėlęs
Bet jis juk žmogaus
Pagaliau jam visko gana!
Lėtai atsisėda, išsekęs,
Lėtai ima segiotis,
Vis delsdamas,
Kaip tas, kurio atvyko policija.
(p. 51-52)
Iš tikrųjų sunku skaityt apie visą tą pyktį ir bjaurastis, sykiu - visiškai priešingai nei, pvz, Rothenbergo - visur matyti kone piktdžiugą ir pompastiką, kylančią iš to blogio. Kitu metu galvočiau, gal čia emo vibes, o dabar, kai blogio kasdien per visus kanalus yra daug - jis tiesiog slegia ir vargina, norisi sakyti Varnui - žinai eik tu šikt, nekenčiu. Kažkodėl atrodo, kad jis tuo džiaugtųsi.
Atskirai parašysiu, kad "Giesmė falui" (per ilga, nenurašysiu) - ne tik eilėraščio, bet ir vertimo meistrystė (vertė Burokas su Plateliu). Pirmi pora posmelių:
Kadais pyplys vardu Edipas
Mamos pilve užstrigo
Užšovė Tėtis jam vartus
Jis buvo blogas bičas
Mama Mama
Tenai ir lik sušuko jis
Nes toks Paukštukas plūdos
Viešai, kad kai tik gimsi tu
Mane laikysi šūdu
Mama Mama
(p. 79)
February 7, 2017
Hey Crow,
With all your self-obsessed aloofness,
your lack of empathy and whimsy,
you're a misrepresentation of all crows.
Yours,
Pigeon
Ah, well, it was only a matter of time before I crossed paths with Ted Hughes' work. Let's just say that just because something is clever, and Hughes' work is CLEVER, it doesn't mean it captures my heart? That is not its aim. Imagination? Definitely not. Interest? No, not that either.
Well, maybe with one exception:
Crow’s Account of the Battle
The cartridges were banging off, as planned,
The fingers were keeping things going
According to excitement and orders.
The unhurt eyes were full of deadliness.
The bullets pursued their courses
Through clods of stone, earth, and skin,
Through intestines pocket-books, brains, hair, teeth
According to Universal laws
And mouths cried "Mamma"
From sudden traps of calculus,
Theorems wrenched men in two,
Shock-severed eyes watched blood
Squandering as from a drain-pipe
Into the blanks between the stars.
Faces slammed down into clay
As for the making of a life-mask
Knew that even on the sun's surface
They could not be learning more or more to the point
Reality was giving it's lesson,
Its mishmash of scripture and physics,
With here, brains in hands, for example,
And there, legs in a treetop.
There was no escape except into death.
And still it went on--it outlasted
Many prayers, many a proved watch
Many bodies in excellent trim,
Till the explosives ran out
And sheer weariness supervened
And what was left looked round at what was left.
With all your self-obsessed aloofness,
your lack of empathy and whimsy,
you're a misrepresentation of all crows.
Yours,
Pigeon
Ah, well, it was only a matter of time before I crossed paths with Ted Hughes' work. Let's just say that just because something is clever, and Hughes' work is CLEVER, it doesn't mean it captures my heart? That is not its aim. Imagination? Definitely not. Interest? No, not that either.
Well, maybe with one exception:
Crow’s Account of the Battle
The cartridges were banging off, as planned,
The fingers were keeping things going
According to excitement and orders.
The unhurt eyes were full of deadliness.
The bullets pursued their courses
Through clods of stone, earth, and skin,
Through intestines pocket-books, brains, hair, teeth
According to Universal laws
And mouths cried "Mamma"
From sudden traps of calculus,
Theorems wrenched men in two,
Shock-severed eyes watched blood
Squandering as from a drain-pipe
Into the blanks between the stars.
Faces slammed down into clay
As for the making of a life-mask
Knew that even on the sun's surface
They could not be learning more or more to the point
Reality was giving it's lesson,
Its mishmash of scripture and physics,
With here, brains in hands, for example,
And there, legs in a treetop.
There was no escape except into death.
And still it went on--it outlasted
Many prayers, many a proved watch
Many bodies in excellent trim,
Till the explosives ran out
And sheer weariness supervened
And what was left looked round at what was left.
September 14, 2020
144th book of 2020.
Crow reeks of English countryside—gnarled yew trees, mudtracks, woodsmoke, old forgotten chapels in the woods, tired paths, sleepy hills and heavy fog. It is mythical, supernatural, religious. It is both terrifying and funny: bloody and vicious and comical; it is unpleasant and thorny. And as we trip through the Crow’s strange world, of Gods and myth, blood and guts, we are dizzied.
Or as the blurb states, "The hero of Ted Hughes' Crow is a creature of mythic proportions. Ferocious, bleak, full of anarchic energy and violent comedy, Crow's story is one of the literary landmarks of our time."
More thoughts to come, describing the poetry here is proving to be rather difficult.
Crow reeks of English countryside—gnarled yew trees, mudtracks, woodsmoke, old forgotten chapels in the woods, tired paths, sleepy hills and heavy fog. It is mythical, supernatural, religious. It is both terrifying and funny: bloody and vicious and comical; it is unpleasant and thorny. And as we trip through the Crow’s strange world, of Gods and myth, blood and guts, we are dizzied.
Or as the blurb states, "The hero of Ted Hughes' Crow is a creature of mythic proportions. Ferocious, bleak, full of anarchic energy and violent comedy, Crow's story is one of the literary landmarks of our time."
More thoughts to come, describing the poetry here is proving to be rather difficult.
January 9, 2016
This collection. What can I say? It's beautiful, and one that I really want to re-read very soon, because I feel like each reading will bring me a brand new experience.
I'd never read any of Ted Hughes poetry before, and frankly I have fallen in love. Never have I experienced such a dark, gritty collection. The poems in this collection for the most part follow the character of Crow, who is grotesque, horrific, yet not unfeeling at certain points. There was a lot of very dark humour in this collection which I really loved, and a lot of surprisingly sexually explicit moments (although it was published in 1970, later than I thought so I guess it's maybe not so surprising).
I will definitely be checking out more Ted Hughes, and I would recommend this Faber edition specifically as it has some poems that were not included in the original publication, some of which were fantastic editions. A beautiful collection that has got me excited about poetry all over again.
I'd never read any of Ted Hughes poetry before, and frankly I have fallen in love. Never have I experienced such a dark, gritty collection. The poems in this collection for the most part follow the character of Crow, who is grotesque, horrific, yet not unfeeling at certain points. There was a lot of very dark humour in this collection which I really loved, and a lot of surprisingly sexually explicit moments (although it was published in 1970, later than I thought so I guess it's maybe not so surprising).
I will definitely be checking out more Ted Hughes, and I would recommend this Faber edition specifically as it has some poems that were not included in the original publication, some of which were fantastic editions. A beautiful collection that has got me excited about poetry all over again.
November 10, 2024
I decided to give this book a "re-read" after many years. I always felt that of solitary books of poetry, it is one of the greatest published in the 20th century. If you look at it even through the prism of the 21st century, it seems as prophetic for now as it was a commentary on the past century.
It did not take me long to read the book. It is an interesting "statement" if you will, and a unique book of poetry. I've not read a collection like it before. There are about five or six poems that are outstanding and rank among the greatest Hughes ever wrote. All told, when you head into the world of Crow, a solitary unnerving ride.
It is not a lengthy book and I reread it over a weekend. The language is dark and heavy, but there is also a beauty to it. I keep thinking of phrases like "earth-bowel brown", "jabbering protest", "God's grimace writhed, a leaf in the furnace", "the slackskin nape", "tears evacuating visibly", "deaf and mineral stare."
This is quite a work.
It did not take me long to read the book. It is an interesting "statement" if you will, and a unique book of poetry. I've not read a collection like it before. There are about five or six poems that are outstanding and rank among the greatest Hughes ever wrote. All told, when you head into the world of Crow, a solitary unnerving ride.
It is not a lengthy book and I reread it over a weekend. The language is dark and heavy, but there is also a beauty to it. I keep thinking of phrases like "earth-bowel brown", "jabbering protest", "God's grimace writhed, a leaf in the furnace", "the slackskin nape", "tears evacuating visibly", "deaf and mineral stare."
This is quite a work.
January 2, 2020
Ted Hughes... after studying some poetry from his collection Birthday Letters and more about his background, I'm not a fan of him as a person. Yet when it comes to sitting down and reading his poems, I'm drawn to them. They are dark, deep, disturbing, cruel... the list goes on. Crow is a short collection, but I had to take my time due to the content. Don't read this one before bedtime, it can get a little gory!
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November 26, 2022Kai kurių kritikų nuomone, „Varnas� žymėjo rizikingą garsaus britų poeto Tedo Hugheso žingsnį. Šis stilistinis eksperimentas įvardijamas kaip nukrypimas nuo ankstyvosios, todėl atpažįstamos ir patrauklios autoriaus poetikos. Žinoma, galbūt kai kuriems skaitytojams buvo maloniau gėrėtis, kai savo poezijoje T.Hughesas rašė apie gyvūnus, kurie netūno grėsmingose mitų ir folkloro tankmėse. „Varno� eilėraščiuose gausu tamsių vaizdų, smurto, perkurtų religinių, archajiškų motyvų, netikėtai prasiveržiančio aštraus, sardoniško, tačiau rafinuoto humoro. Kai kurie tekstai gali būti skaitomi kaip mitai apie pasaulio sukūrimą („Pradžioje buvo Klyksmas / Jam gimė Kraujas (�) // Gimė Varnas� (p. 12). Eilėraščių centre stypčioja nenuorama Varnas � anarchiška, chaotiška, vaidinga, smurtaujanti figūra, sukurta iš bjauriausių mitologijos atliekų, atkeliavusi iš tamsiausių žmonijos pasąmonės paraščių.
February 15, 2021
"Crow" de Ted Hughes é literatura de tão alto nível que tudo ao redor de repente parece bobo e supérfluo. É um livro com a pretensão estratosférica de criar mitos, de fundar sua própria mitologia. Talvez tenha feito mais pela divulgação do gnosticismo que a descoberta das escrituras de Nag Hammadi. Existe na conjunção entre metafísica, luto e horror, com resultado às vezes grotesco e cômico. Ted Hughes comunica uma visão de mundo única e pessoal, e isso é o que mais peço da literatura.
November 14, 2016
Let me begin by saying I am not a reader of poetry. In fact, I am struggling to remember ever before reading a whole book of poems. I think the closest I have come is poetry studied as part of an English Literature 'O Level' several decades ago.
With my inexperience in mind, Crow might not be the best place to start. Perhaps Pam Ayres would be better for a novice?
I can't claim that I understood this. But I do know that I felt its power. I certainly can't claim that my life has taken me anywhere near the place Ted Hughes was in when he wrote this. But I do know I could feel the grief, bitterness and rage. Hughes draws on mythology. He corrupts Christian theology. He rails against war. He writes of pain and suffering.
I feel compelled to put this on my "to re-read" list. It is not a collection that can be read once and left to gather dust. It demands to be re-read. I picked it up to read as background reading before launching into where Crow is one of the major characters. But I will have to come back to it at some point.
With my inexperience in mind, Crow might not be the best place to start. Perhaps Pam Ayres would be better for a novice?
I can't claim that I understood this. But I do know that I felt its power. I certainly can't claim that my life has taken me anywhere near the place Ted Hughes was in when he wrote this. But I do know I could feel the grief, bitterness and rage. Hughes draws on mythology. He corrupts Christian theology. He rails against war. He writes of pain and suffering.
I feel compelled to put this on my "to re-read" list. It is not a collection that can be read once and left to gather dust. It demands to be re-read. I picked it up to read as background reading before launching into where Crow is one of the major characters. But I will have to come back to it at some point.
January 15, 2016
In all honesty, this was just okay for me. I'm sure it's worthy of a 5 star rating, as it feels like a masterpiece of poetry. Unfortunately most of it went over my head.
October 2, 2016
Publisher's Note
--Two Legends
--Lineage
--Examination at the Womb-door
--A Kill
--Crow and Mama
--The Door
--A Childish Prank
--Crow's First Lesson
--Crow Alights
--That Moment
--Crow Hears Fate Knock on the Door
--Crow Tyrannosaurus
--Crow's Account of the Battle
--The Black Beast
--A Grin
--Crow Communes
--Crow's Account of St George
--A Disaster
--The Battle of Osfrontalis
--Crow's Theology
--Crow's Fall
--Crow and the Birds
--Criminal Ballad
--Crow on the Beach
--The Contender
--Oedipus Crow
--Crow's Vanity
--A Horrible Religious Error
--Crow Tries the Media
--Crow's Nerve Fails
--In Laughter
--Crow Frowns
--Magical Dangers
--Robin Song
--Conjuring in Heaven
--Crow Goes Hunting
--Owl's Song
--Crow's Undersong
--Crow's Elephant Totem Song
--Dawn's Rose
--Crow's Playmates
--Crowego
--The Smile
--Crow Improvises
--Crowcolour
--Crow's Battle Fury
--Crow Blacker than ever
--Revenge Fable
--A Bedtime Story
--Crow's Song of Himself
--Crow Sickened
--Song for a Phallus
--Apple Tragedy
--Crow Paints Himself into a Chinese Mural
--Crow's Last Stand
--Crow and the Sea
--Truth Kills Everybody
--Crow and Stone
--Fragment of an Ancient Tablet
--Notes for a Little Play
--Snake Hymn
--Lovesong
--Glimpse
--King of Carrion
Two Eskimo Songs
--I Fleeing From Eternity
--II How Water Began To Play
--Littleblood
--Two Legends
--Lineage
--Examination at the Womb-door
--A Kill
--Crow and Mama
--The Door
--A Childish Prank
--Crow's First Lesson
--Crow Alights
--That Moment
--Crow Hears Fate Knock on the Door
--Crow Tyrannosaurus
--Crow's Account of the Battle
--The Black Beast
--A Grin
--Crow Communes
--Crow's Account of St George
--A Disaster
--The Battle of Osfrontalis
--Crow's Theology
--Crow's Fall
--Crow and the Birds
--Criminal Ballad
--Crow on the Beach
--The Contender
--Oedipus Crow
--Crow's Vanity
--A Horrible Religious Error
--Crow Tries the Media
--Crow's Nerve Fails
--In Laughter
--Crow Frowns
--Magical Dangers
--Robin Song
--Conjuring in Heaven
--Crow Goes Hunting
--Owl's Song
--Crow's Undersong
--Crow's Elephant Totem Song
--Dawn's Rose
--Crow's Playmates
--Crowego
--The Smile
--Crow Improvises
--Crowcolour
--Crow's Battle Fury
--Crow Blacker than ever
--Revenge Fable
--A Bedtime Story
--Crow's Song of Himself
--Crow Sickened
--Song for a Phallus
--Apple Tragedy
--Crow Paints Himself into a Chinese Mural
--Crow's Last Stand
--Crow and the Sea
--Truth Kills Everybody
--Crow and Stone
--Fragment of an Ancient Tablet
--Notes for a Little Play
--Snake Hymn
--Lovesong
--Glimpse
--King of Carrion
Two Eskimo Songs
--I Fleeing From Eternity
--II How Water Began To Play
--Littleblood
February 6, 2024
..grāmatai ir trīs daļas. pirmā � Vēršu Mozus � mani patīkami pārsteidza un brīžiem patika pat vairāk kā ļoti. viens otrs pants vispār spridzināja. otrā � Vārna � man tikai vietām lika sajūsmināties. piemēram, Mīlas dziesma bija nudien fantastisks dzejolis. trešās � Psalmi � daļas panti man bija vismazāk saistoši. kopumā gan nebiju gaidījis, ka man patiks šis vīrietis, kurš nogalināja manu mīļo Silviju (Plātu) un iznīcināja tik daudz viņas sarakstītā.
January 20, 2024
Neradau ir nesupratau to mistiško ir gotiško grožio, kurį žadėjo anotacija...visiškai nemano...
June 8, 2011
One of those "classics" I'd not yet gotten around to reading, this is an amazingly dark and intense book, full of surreal and haunting imagery, but not without wry humor. It contains real horror and real emotion, and is mostly spoken in the voice of "Crow", who feels like a cross between a dark/negative Holy Ghost and a primal energy of the death that resides in all life -- not God, but a god, one who's ultimately a reflection of all that is egotistical, ugly, unconscious, on the edge of sanity, and primal in humans (particularly male humans; Crow's voice, to me, often sounds afraid of the female principle).
This is a keeper of a book, with much mystery and intrigue, one I feel I can learn from in terms of imaginative blending of voice/persona with dark humor and universal themes of loathing, lust, despair, longing, creation, and destruction. It's not an easy, linear narrative; it would be far less interesting and deep if it were. The book is dedicated to Hughes' lover and child, Assia and Shura (the woman he left Plath for, who committed suicide and also killed their 4-year-old), and though he was working on these poems before her suicide, it feels as if there is a tremendous amount of remorse and self-loathing contained within (perhaps guilt over Plath's suicide, if not foreboding about what was to come 6 years later). This book came out the year after Assia's suicide.
Here were some of my favorites:
Crow's Vanity
May 27, 2014
Ted Hughes� The Crow was a mixed bag for me. Some poems went right over my head no matter how many times I would read them. Others read like pretentious claptrap. But then there were a handful that I enjoyed reading, like “Crow Goes Hunting�:
Crow
Decided to try words.
He imagined some words for the job, a lovely pack �
Clear-eyed, resounding, well-trained,
With strong teeth.
You could not find a better bred lot.
He pointed out the hare and away went the words
Resounding.
Crow was Crow without fail, but what is a hare?
It converted itself to a concrete bunker.
The words circled protesting, resounding.
Crow turned the words into bombs � they blasted the bunker.
The bits of bunker flew up � a flock of starlings.
Crow turned the words into shotguns, they shot down the starlings.
The falling starlings turned to a cloudburst.
Crow turned the words into a reservoir, collecting the water.
The water turned into an earthquake, swallowing the reservoir.
The earthquake turned into a hare and leaped for the hill
Having eaten Crow’s words.
Crow gazed after the bounding hare
Speechless with admiration.
My other favorites were “Crow’s Playmates,� “Apple Tragedy,� “Fragment of an Ancient Tablet� and “Snake Hymn.�
If you’re a Hughes fan then you’ll probably like this collection well enough but I can’t competently say “yea� or “nay� for anyone else.
Crow
Decided to try words.
He imagined some words for the job, a lovely pack �
Clear-eyed, resounding, well-trained,
With strong teeth.
You could not find a better bred lot.
He pointed out the hare and away went the words
Resounding.
Crow was Crow without fail, but what is a hare?
It converted itself to a concrete bunker.
The words circled protesting, resounding.
Crow turned the words into bombs � they blasted the bunker.
The bits of bunker flew up � a flock of starlings.
Crow turned the words into shotguns, they shot down the starlings.
The falling starlings turned to a cloudburst.
Crow turned the words into a reservoir, collecting the water.
The water turned into an earthquake, swallowing the reservoir.
The earthquake turned into a hare and leaped for the hill
Having eaten Crow’s words.
Crow gazed after the bounding hare
Speechless with admiration.
My other favorites were “Crow’s Playmates,� “Apple Tragedy,� “Fragment of an Ancient Tablet� and “Snake Hymn.�
If you’re a Hughes fan then you’ll probably like this collection well enough but I can’t competently say “yea� or “nay� for anyone else.
February 20, 2023
Poetry is a bit of a foreign country for me, mainly because i find it personal and there is the possibility that I may miss the point of what the poet is trying to say. This year the IRL book club that I co-run decided of decided to choose Crow, because we decided to challenge ourselves. In fact we decided to pair the book with Max Porter’s Grief is the thing with Feathers but that’s another review (or maybe not, we’ll see)
Crow was written when Hughes was entering a dark period of his life due to the suicide of his first wife, Sylvia Plath , just for the record Plath had been had been the victim of Hughes� abusive behaviour throughout their fraught marriage. Also two years after the publication of Crow, Hughes second wife and child died and he revised it.
As one can guess the subject matter is bleak. Death permeates the poem, not only that, but Hughes is questioning and rejecting his beliefs. Within both poem and character of Crow Hughes invokes Greek and native American Mythology � all personified by Crow.
The poem begins with Crow born out of ugliness, he, however is white, which means he is pure and is God’s companion. Soon though signs are starting to show that Crow may cause trouble. In the section, crow’s first lesson Hod is trying to teach him to say love but instead all that comes out of his mouth are objects of destruction, the last object signifying the strife that will exist between man and woman (which in turn is probably Hughes way of displaying his treatment of Plath).
The apex of the poem is crow’s Fall in where he challenges God � here symbolised by the sun by flying straight into him and losing all his whiteness and becoming the black bird we know of. Thus Crow’s rejection of a higher being is complete and is ready to spread as much destruction as possible.
The rest of the poem then portrays crow as a harbinger of death but is also a trickster, always defying the higher powers by challenging them. Hughes gives the reader snapshots of various periods in ancient history where grief dominated. As a reflection of Hughes own turmoil, this is a journey into a dark side which is frightening. This is accentuated in Tyrannosaurus Crow, where Hughes depicts the food chain in such a way that one realises the inevitability of death, or as philosophers believe that once we’re born our journey towards death begins as well.
Crow is not a pleasant read but, then again a poem which represents the anger and the futility of life cannot be so. There are a lot of visceral descriptions, which is apt as a crow is an animal which feeds on carrion but also is a deep dive of a troubled mindset. Ugly, blackly comic and brutal Crow is an unforgettable trawl through the deep recesses of the psyche when despair and depression takes over.
As a poetry novice I am not sure if this is a correct interpretation but I do know what I like and this struck me and has affected me. Like I said, I do feel like a voyeur but Crow did manage to express a lot of feelings I have over grief which I was unable to express myself and I believe this is the power of literature.
Crow was written when Hughes was entering a dark period of his life due to the suicide of his first wife, Sylvia Plath , just for the record Plath had been had been the victim of Hughes� abusive behaviour throughout their fraught marriage. Also two years after the publication of Crow, Hughes second wife and child died and he revised it.
As one can guess the subject matter is bleak. Death permeates the poem, not only that, but Hughes is questioning and rejecting his beliefs. Within both poem and character of Crow Hughes invokes Greek and native American Mythology � all personified by Crow.
The poem begins with Crow born out of ugliness, he, however is white, which means he is pure and is God’s companion. Soon though signs are starting to show that Crow may cause trouble. In the section, crow’s first lesson Hod is trying to teach him to say love but instead all that comes out of his mouth are objects of destruction, the last object signifying the strife that will exist between man and woman (which in turn is probably Hughes way of displaying his treatment of Plath).
The apex of the poem is crow’s Fall in where he challenges God � here symbolised by the sun by flying straight into him and losing all his whiteness and becoming the black bird we know of. Thus Crow’s rejection of a higher being is complete and is ready to spread as much destruction as possible.
The rest of the poem then portrays crow as a harbinger of death but is also a trickster, always defying the higher powers by challenging them. Hughes gives the reader snapshots of various periods in ancient history where grief dominated. As a reflection of Hughes own turmoil, this is a journey into a dark side which is frightening. This is accentuated in Tyrannosaurus Crow, where Hughes depicts the food chain in such a way that one realises the inevitability of death, or as philosophers believe that once we’re born our journey towards death begins as well.
Crow is not a pleasant read but, then again a poem which represents the anger and the futility of life cannot be so. There are a lot of visceral descriptions, which is apt as a crow is an animal which feeds on carrion but also is a deep dive of a troubled mindset. Ugly, blackly comic and brutal Crow is an unforgettable trawl through the deep recesses of the psyche when despair and depression takes over.
As a poetry novice I am not sure if this is a correct interpretation but I do know what I like and this struck me and has affected me. Like I said, I do feel like a voyeur but Crow did manage to express a lot of feelings I have over grief which I was unable to express myself and I believe this is the power of literature.
February 7, 2025
Užkabino savo humoru, ir traukia, ir gąsdina savo gaivališkumu.
Apklausa prie įsčių angos
Kieno šios kaulėtos kojelės? Mirties.
Kieno šis šeriuotas tarsi nusvilintas snukutis? Mirties.
Kieno šie vis dar kvėpuojantys plaučiai? Mirties.
Kieno šis naudingas raumenų šarvas? Mirties.
Kieno šie viduriai nenusakomi? Mirties.
Kieno šios abejotinos smegenys? Mirties.
O šis drumstas kraujas? Mirties.
Šios žemažiūrės akys? Mirties.
Šis šelmiškas liežuvėlis? Mirties.
Šis vis užplūstantis budrumas? Mirties.
Dovanota, pavogta ar iki teismo patikėta?
ʲپėٲ.
Kieno visa ši lietinga, akmenuota žemė? Mirties.
Kieno visa ši erdvė? Mirties.
Kas už viltį stipriau? Mirtis.
Kas už valią stipriau? Mirtis.
Stipriau už meilę? Mirtis.
Už gyvenimą? Mirtis.
Bet kas gi už mirtį stipresnis?
Aišku, kad aš.
Praeiki, Varne.
Apklausa prie įsčių angos
Kieno šios kaulėtos kojelės? Mirties.
Kieno šis šeriuotas tarsi nusvilintas snukutis? Mirties.
Kieno šie vis dar kvėpuojantys plaučiai? Mirties.
Kieno šis naudingas raumenų šarvas? Mirties.
Kieno šie viduriai nenusakomi? Mirties.
Kieno šios abejotinos smegenys? Mirties.
O šis drumstas kraujas? Mirties.
Šios žemažiūrės akys? Mirties.
Šis šelmiškas liežuvėlis? Mirties.
Šis vis užplūstantis budrumas? Mirties.
Dovanota, pavogta ar iki teismo patikėta?
ʲپėٲ.
Kieno visa ši lietinga, akmenuota žemė? Mirties.
Kieno visa ši erdvė? Mirties.
Kas už viltį stipriau? Mirtis.
Kas už valią stipriau? Mirtis.
Stipriau už meilę? Mirtis.
Už gyvenimą? Mirtis.
Bet kas gi už mirtį stipresnis?
Aišku, kad aš.
Praeiki, Varne.
December 19, 2007
February 17th
A lamb could not get born. Ice wind
Out of a downpour dishclout sunrise. The mother
Lay on the muddied slope. Harried, she got up
And the blackish lump bobbed at her back-end
Under her tail. After some hard galloping,
Some manoeuvering, much flapping of the backward
Lump head of the lamb looking out,
I caught her with a rope. Laid her, head uphill
And examined the lamb. A blood-ball swollen
Tight in its black felt, its mouth gap
Squashed crooked, tongue stuck out, black-purple,
Strangled by its mother. I felt inside,
Past the noose of mother-flesh, into the slippery
Muscled tunnel, fingering for a hoof,
Right back to the port-hole of the pelvis.
But there was no hoof. He had stuck his head out too early
And his feet could not follow. He should have
Felt his way, tip-toe, his toes
Tucked up under his nose
For a safe landing. So I kneeled wrestling
With her groans. No hand could squeeze past
The lamb's neck into her interior
To hook a knee. I roped that baby head
And hauled till she cried out and tried
To get up and I saw it was useless. I went
Two miles for the injection and a razor.
Sliced the lamb's throat-strings, levered with a knife
Between the vertebrae and brought the head off
To stare at its mother, its pipes sitting in the mud
With all earth for a body. Then pushed
The neck-stump right back in, and as I pushed
She pushed. She pushed crying and I pushed gasping.
And the strength
Of the birth push and the push of my thumb
Against that wobbly vertebrae were deadlock,
A to-fro futility. Till I forced
A hand past and got a knee. Then like
Pulling myself to the ceiling with one finger
Hooked in a loop, timing my effort
To her birth push groans, I pulled against
The corpse that would not come. Till it came,
And after it the long, sudden, yolk-yellow
Parcel of life
In a smothering slither of oils and soups and syrups -
And the body lay born, beside the hacked-off head.
Of course that poem isn't from this collection, but I wanted it on the site to share with everyone. I am really impressed with T.H.
A lamb could not get born. Ice wind
Out of a downpour dishclout sunrise. The mother
Lay on the muddied slope. Harried, she got up
And the blackish lump bobbed at her back-end
Under her tail. After some hard galloping,
Some manoeuvering, much flapping of the backward
Lump head of the lamb looking out,
I caught her with a rope. Laid her, head uphill
And examined the lamb. A blood-ball swollen
Tight in its black felt, its mouth gap
Squashed crooked, tongue stuck out, black-purple,
Strangled by its mother. I felt inside,
Past the noose of mother-flesh, into the slippery
Muscled tunnel, fingering for a hoof,
Right back to the port-hole of the pelvis.
But there was no hoof. He had stuck his head out too early
And his feet could not follow. He should have
Felt his way, tip-toe, his toes
Tucked up under his nose
For a safe landing. So I kneeled wrestling
With her groans. No hand could squeeze past
The lamb's neck into her interior
To hook a knee. I roped that baby head
And hauled till she cried out and tried
To get up and I saw it was useless. I went
Two miles for the injection and a razor.
Sliced the lamb's throat-strings, levered with a knife
Between the vertebrae and brought the head off
To stare at its mother, its pipes sitting in the mud
With all earth for a body. Then pushed
The neck-stump right back in, and as I pushed
She pushed. She pushed crying and I pushed gasping.
And the strength
Of the birth push and the push of my thumb
Against that wobbly vertebrae were deadlock,
A to-fro futility. Till I forced
A hand past and got a knee. Then like
Pulling myself to the ceiling with one finger
Hooked in a loop, timing my effort
To her birth push groans, I pulled against
The corpse that would not come. Till it came,
And after it the long, sudden, yolk-yellow
Parcel of life
In a smothering slither of oils and soups and syrups -
And the body lay born, beside the hacked-off head.
Of course that poem isn't from this collection, but I wanted it on the site to share with everyone. I am really impressed with T.H.
May 4, 2017
Crow was first published in 1970 and is considered a classic. I wanted to read it because I’d heard it was dark and violent. It also has very good ratings on ŷ.
I guess I’m a black sheep because I kinda hated this book. The collection is about a mythological crow that causes destruction in the human world. The poems blend myth, religion, nature, and imagination. I like the strong imagery and the accessibility of the collection. The poems are pretty easy to understand. I really struggled with the anger, though. I don’t mind reading angry literature, but it’s emotionally draining, so I want to feel like I’m getting something out of it. I want to learn, or to be blown away by the author’s use of language, or to escape to another world. When I finished this collection, my thought was, Well, that was depressing. Why did I read it?
My favorite poem in the book is “Apple Tragedy.� The ending is so unexpected that it made me laugh. My brain melted all the other poems into a big puddle of misery, so I don’t really remember them. I guess I missed whatever is so amazing about this collection.
I guess I’m a black sheep because I kinda hated this book. The collection is about a mythological crow that causes destruction in the human world. The poems blend myth, religion, nature, and imagination. I like the strong imagery and the accessibility of the collection. The poems are pretty easy to understand. I really struggled with the anger, though. I don’t mind reading angry literature, but it’s emotionally draining, so I want to feel like I’m getting something out of it. I want to learn, or to be blown away by the author’s use of language, or to escape to another world. When I finished this collection, my thought was, Well, that was depressing. Why did I read it?
My favorite poem in the book is “Apple Tragedy.� The ending is so unexpected that it made me laugh. My brain melted all the other poems into a big puddle of misery, so I don’t really remember them. I guess I missed whatever is so amazing about this collection.
“To hatch a crow, a black rainbow
Bent in emptiness
over emptiness
But flying� - Crow
November 3, 2010
I rarely read poetry, but I enjoyed this strange little book by Ted Hughes. It's full of dark imagery, violence and unexpected humour. The poems read like myths of the origins of the world, except that at the middle of them all is Crow, this anarchic, chaotic, ugly, violent figure, playing tricks on God and turning creation upside-down.
I was reminded of the Anansi figure in West Indian Folk Tales, himself of course of West African origin. I suspect Hughes drew on a lot of mythological sources in these poems, many of which I am blissfully unaware of, but it didn't seem to matter - even in the poems where I wasn't sure what he was driving at, I was pleased by the rhythm of the language, somehow different in each poem but forming a coherent whole.
There's a lot more you could say about these poems - you could probably do a whole English Literature course on them - but I don't want to go that deep. I'm happy for now just to have discovered that rare thing for me, poetry that I can truly enjoy. I'll keep this on my shelf and probably re-read from time to time, if only to try to understand why this worked for me and so much other poetry doesn't.
I was reminded of the Anansi figure in West Indian Folk Tales, himself of course of West African origin. I suspect Hughes drew on a lot of mythological sources in these poems, many of which I am blissfully unaware of, but it didn't seem to matter - even in the poems where I wasn't sure what he was driving at, I was pleased by the rhythm of the language, somehow different in each poem but forming a coherent whole.
There's a lot more you could say about these poems - you could probably do a whole English Literature course on them - but I don't want to go that deep. I'm happy for now just to have discovered that rare thing for me, poetry that I can truly enjoy. I'll keep this on my shelf and probably re-read from time to time, if only to try to understand why this worked for me and so much other poetry doesn't.
May 20, 2007
In native American culture in particular, the Crow was seen as the eternal trickster, even a figure of malice in the forms of the Universe. In this pivitol collection, Hughes appropriates the Crow's mythic role and uses it as a mocking narrator to journey the horrors of the Twentieth Century, including the repressive events of Eastern Europe and the violent incursion of technology and post industrialisation into nature's den. There is a sadism in these poems, that initially arrests the reader, but coupled with the Crow's primordial nihilsim, a clever dark comedy is achieved by the time we reach the final lines...
One of Ted's best.
One of Ted's best.
June 16, 2022
Pavartęs lietuvišką vertimą, supratau, kad reikia geriau klausytis angliško audio varianto, nes kad ir koks geras vertėjas bebūtų originalas lieka geriausias.
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May 28, 2020
ერთი დიდი შავი შოკოლადი� ფილა�
რაღა� ლექსებ� ძალიან მომეწონა
რაღა� ლექსებ� ვერც თავი გავუგე და ვერც ბოლო
რაღა� ლექსებ� კი უბრალო� მომეწონა
და მაინ�,არაფერ� ის� არ უხდება სიტყვებს შორი� აზრი� კონტრასტ�,როგო� პოეზია�
რაღა� ლექსებ� ძალიან მომეწონა
რაღა� ლექსებ� ვერც თავი გავუგე და ვერც ბოლო
რაღა� ლექსებ� კი უბრალო� მომეწონა
და მაინ�,არაფერ� ის� არ უხდება სიტყვებს შორი� აზრი� კონტრასტ�,როგო� პოეზია�
November 23, 2024
The crow feeds on carrion. And Crow is a bloody wound, a butchered death as poetry. Crow is the instinct to pick at the bloody hole in your side, the drive to open yourself up and pull at a tendon, taut, like a string. As if intrusion is truth. As if you need only feel the wrecked body and like Thomas of the Gospels you will turn and believe.
dz Examination at the Womb-door
Crow is a howl, unceasing, at the stars, fuming away into the black, mushrooms / of the nothing forest, clouding their spores, the virus of God.
Crow is a primordial monster, a thaumatutge deity, cruel and bitter and spurned, a spirit of utter destruction. He is brutal, horrific, cackling. He is, in some sense, a daemon and patron of modernity, of aching humanity.
In Brecht's Threepenny Opera human oppression is likened to cannibalism (and a reversal to bestial nature, as the German verb fressen applies to animals, not humans eating): So how do humans live? By eating humans! / By boiling, frying, roasting, toasting those who they can / This life is possible because us humans / avoid the sight of their own frying pans!
And so in Crow the totality of life is represented with nihilistic ecological brutality:
dz Crow Tyrannosaurus
There is almost a playfulness there, a visual comedy in Hughe's choice of spacing—which is otherwisemostly more subdued, subtle, but always masterful—which makes all the more grotesque the return to vivid bleakness. If one must imagine Sisyphus happy, what is to imagine of the no doubt ecstatic manager of Tartarus? What of the rock's own hidden, ressentiment-bred glee as it rolls down the mountain?
Consider, at last, Leonard Baskin's cover illustration: that raptor expression frozen in-between horror and incomprehension, on its trunks of legs, melded, moulded, melted, distended genitalial flesh, slabs of skin culminating in jutting bone and a heap of tissue, a mass, half-inked: ... A bird head. / Bald, lizard-eyed, the size of a football, on two staggering bird-legs / Gapes at him all the seams and pleats of its throat, / Clutching at the carpet with horny feet, / Threatens.
|
* (Translation of Threepenny Opera based iirc on Wallace Shawn's (for the 2006 New York revival, which doubles-down on the evocativeness of explotation as literal consumption. The German goes more like � if I had to strike a balance in-between loyalty to literary meaning and some amount of style, and just give up on ever fitting to the music � So how do humans live? By hourly / Tormenting, extracting, choking, devouring all humankind, / Only so do humans live, by so thoroughly / Forgetting they are also humankind. )
But who is stronger than death?
Me, evidently.
Pass, Crow.
dz Examination at the Womb-door
Crow is a howl, unceasing, at the stars, fuming away into the black, mushrooms / of the nothing forest, clouding their spores, the virus of God.
Crow is a primordial monster, a thaumatutge deity, cruel and bitter and spurned, a spirit of utter destruction. He is brutal, horrific, cackling. He is, in some sense, a daemon and patron of modernity, of aching humanity.
In Brecht's Threepenny Opera human oppression is likened to cannibalism (and a reversal to bestial nature, as the German verb fressen applies to animals, not humans eating): So how do humans live? By eating humans! / By boiling, frying, roasting, toasting those who they can / This life is possible because us humans / avoid the sight of their own frying pans!
And so in Crow the totality of life is represented with nihilistic ecological brutality:
. . .
The cat's body writhed
Gagging
A tunnel
Of incoming death-struggles, sorrow on sorrow.
And the dog was a bulging filterbag
Of all the deaths it had gulped for the flesh and the bones.
It could not digest their screeching finales.
Its shapeless cry was a blort of all those voices.
Even man he was a walking
Abattoir
Of innocents �
His brain incinerating their outcry.
Crow thought 'Alas
Alas ought I
To stop eating
And try to become the light?'
But his eyes saw a grub. And his head, trapsprung,
stabbed.
And he listened
And he heard
Weeping
GrubsgrubsHe stabbedhe stabbed
Weeping
Weeping
Weeping he walked and stabbed
Thus came the eye's
roundness
the ear's
deafness.
dz Crow Tyrannosaurus
There is almost a playfulness there, a visual comedy in Hughe's choice of spacing—which is otherwisemostly more subdued, subtle, but always masterful—which makes all the more grotesque the return to vivid bleakness. If one must imagine Sisyphus happy, what is to imagine of the no doubt ecstatic manager of Tartarus? What of the rock's own hidden, ressentiment-bred glee as it rolls down the mountain?
Consider, at last, Leonard Baskin's cover illustration: that raptor expression frozen in-between horror and incomprehension, on its trunks of legs, melded, moulded, melted, distended genitalial flesh, slabs of skin culminating in jutting bone and a heap of tissue, a mass, half-inked: ... A bird head. / Bald, lizard-eyed, the size of a football, on two staggering bird-legs / Gapes at him all the seams and pleats of its throat, / Clutching at the carpet with horny feet, / Threatens.
| * (Translation of Threepenny Opera based iirc on Wallace Shawn's (for the 2006 New York revival, which doubles-down on the evocativeness of explotation as literal consumption. The German goes more like � if I had to strike a balance in-between loyalty to literary meaning and some amount of style, and just give up on ever fitting to the music � So how do humans live? By hourly / Tormenting, extracting, choking, devouring all humankind, / Only so do humans live, by so thoroughly / Forgetting they are also humankind. )
February 18, 2013
A Top Shelf review, originally published in
Dark, Tragic Verse
Fifty years ago, poet Sylvia Plath killed herself by sealing the kitchen off from her two sleeping children, switching on the gas and sticking her head in the oven. She had separated from her husband, the poet Ted Hughes, seven months earlier when she learned he was having an affair. Hughes called her suicide “the end of [his] life,� but that darkness was compounded further when Assia Wevill, his lover, killed herself and their daughter six years later in exactly the same way as Plath (also after Hughes had another affair).
While it has been popular to paint Hughes as a unrepentant monster responsible for the deaths of two women, the poet was devastated by the human destruction around him. Nowhere is this clearer than in Crow, a collection of dark, primal, gut-wrenching poems centered on the eponymous figure, a sort of tragic trickster bird who embodies the blundering and brutal beast in Man. Hughes is clearly trying to come to grips with all that he abhors in himself, a “black rainbow/ Bent in emptiness/ over emptiness.� Crow is left when everything else perishes (“who is stronger than death? Me, evidently�), he plays pranks that cause horrible devastation, and in “Crow’s First Lesson,� even God cannot teach him to say the word “love.� Charred black in a battle with the sun, he cannot admit defeat and insists that “up there…[w]here white is black and black white, I won.� He is befuddled by the actions and emotions of others: “His utmost gaping of the brain in his tiny skull/ Was just enough to wonder, about the sea,/ What could be hurting so much?� Repeatedly Hughes shows us how bleak a life can be that goes on after terrible tragedy, how darkly absurd it is to laugh and eat and lie together when the world is falling apart around us.
The collection is certainly not for all readers. For those of you willing to contemplate the deep imperfections in every human being and study how one man managed to dredge up and face the demons that had ripped love from him, this is a moving, powerful piece of writing. Hughes� poetry before Crow was clever and studied, exploring animal imagery and Eastern religions. It was very good, but arguable not amazing. The tragedies around him, however, ripped raw, powerful verse from the depths of his soul. They also gave birth to one of the greatest figures in modern poetry, Crow, an amazing modern take on the ancient trickster archetype.
Dark, Tragic Verse
Fifty years ago, poet Sylvia Plath killed herself by sealing the kitchen off from her two sleeping children, switching on the gas and sticking her head in the oven. She had separated from her husband, the poet Ted Hughes, seven months earlier when she learned he was having an affair. Hughes called her suicide “the end of [his] life,� but that darkness was compounded further when Assia Wevill, his lover, killed herself and their daughter six years later in exactly the same way as Plath (also after Hughes had another affair).
While it has been popular to paint Hughes as a unrepentant monster responsible for the deaths of two women, the poet was devastated by the human destruction around him. Nowhere is this clearer than in Crow, a collection of dark, primal, gut-wrenching poems centered on the eponymous figure, a sort of tragic trickster bird who embodies the blundering and brutal beast in Man. Hughes is clearly trying to come to grips with all that he abhors in himself, a “black rainbow/ Bent in emptiness/ over emptiness.� Crow is left when everything else perishes (“who is stronger than death? Me, evidently�), he plays pranks that cause horrible devastation, and in “Crow’s First Lesson,� even God cannot teach him to say the word “love.� Charred black in a battle with the sun, he cannot admit defeat and insists that “up there…[w]here white is black and black white, I won.� He is befuddled by the actions and emotions of others: “His utmost gaping of the brain in his tiny skull/ Was just enough to wonder, about the sea,/ What could be hurting so much?� Repeatedly Hughes shows us how bleak a life can be that goes on after terrible tragedy, how darkly absurd it is to laugh and eat and lie together when the world is falling apart around us.
The collection is certainly not for all readers. For those of you willing to contemplate the deep imperfections in every human being and study how one man managed to dredge up and face the demons that had ripped love from him, this is a moving, powerful piece of writing. Hughes� poetry before Crow was clever and studied, exploring animal imagery and Eastern religions. It was very good, but arguable not amazing. The tragedies around him, however, ripped raw, powerful verse from the depths of his soul. They also gave birth to one of the greatest figures in modern poetry, Crow, an amazing modern take on the ancient trickster archetype.
August 8, 2019
The book has been dedicated to the memory of Assia Wevill and her child Shura. I think Assia Wevill was really a challenging dramatic figure we can't ignore. The book starts with a poem called "Two Legends" I suppose these two legends are the legends of Sylvia Plath and Assia Wevill. The second legend is much darker and more tragic. A woman who commits suicide seven years after Plath's death and kills her child not to leave a trace. I think she was charming and impressive who caused the loss of a prominent poet. But very sad it is. Nobody mourned for her except Hughes who Knew her legend. A Jewish infatuated refugee. She belonged to the world of charm and poetry. A wandering Jew and a charismatic figure and this is her legend:
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
دو افسانه / شعری از تد هیوز/ ترجمه به فارسی از رُزا جمالی
یک
سیاهی بی چشم بود
سیاهی در زبان جاری ست
سیاهی خود قلب بود
جگر آدمی سیاه بود و شش ها سیاه اند
که در نور چیزی را به درون نمی کشد
سیاهی اندرونی کوره است
سیاهی همان ماهیچه است
قحطی زده که بیرون بکشد از روشنایی
سیاهی عصب هاست
سیاهی مغز است
با نگاهی که به مقبره ها خیره است
سیاهی همان روح است
لکنتنی که تمامی ندارد
گریه ای ست که نمی تواند خود را ادا کند و یا به بیان در بیاید
متورم است
و این خورشید درون ادا نمی شود.
دو
سیاهی سر برافراشته ی سمور دریایی ست
سیاهی سنگ و صخره است که در کف ها فرو می رود
سیاهی صفراست و خونی که تخت را پوشانده
سیاهی کره ی زمین است، یک پا زیر زمین فرو رفته
تخم مرغی سیاه
و ماه و خورشید هوا را متغیر می سازند
که کلاغی را از تخم بیرون بیاورند، رنگین کمانی سیاه
که در تهی خم شده
و بر تهی خم شده
اما در اهتزار است.
از کتاب " کلاغ"
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
دو افسانه / شعری از تد هیوز/ ترجمه به فارسی از رُزا جمالی
یک
سیاهی بی چشم بود
سیاهی در زبان جاری ست
سیاهی خود قلب بود
جگر آدمی سیاه بود و شش ها سیاه اند
که در نور چیزی را به درون نمی کشد
سیاهی اندرونی کوره است
سیاهی همان ماهیچه است
قحطی زده که بیرون بکشد از روشنایی
سیاهی عصب هاست
سیاهی مغز است
با نگاهی که به مقبره ها خیره است
سیاهی همان روح است
لکنتنی که تمامی ندارد
گریه ای ست که نمی تواند خود را ادا کند و یا به بیان در بیاید
متورم است
و این خورشید درون ادا نمی شود.
دو
سیاهی سر برافراشته ی سمور دریایی ست
سیاهی سنگ و صخره است که در کف ها فرو می رود
سیاهی صفراست و خونی که تخت را پوشانده
سیاهی کره ی زمین است، یک پا زیر زمین فرو رفته
تخم مرغی سیاه
و ماه و خورشید هوا را متغیر می سازند
که کلاغی را از تخم بیرون بیاورند، رنگین کمانی سیاه
که در تهی خم شده
و بر تهی خم شده
اما در اهتزار است.
از کتاب " کلاغ"
September 1, 2015
A reread.
All the poems in Crow are in a stark, bold typescript that flies off the page at you and suit the thunderous poetry about the wild trickster of existence written by a poet who himself had godlike looks and talent. Hughes's language is incantatory, aggressive, and riveting. The language struts like you'd expect Crow to strut after having scared the dawn away or found some deliciously foul meal. I've read this several times. In the same way I do with Eliot, I have to occasionally touch base with these irresistible poems about a bird larger than all existence who's probably responsible for all existence.
All the poems in Crow are in a stark, bold typescript that flies off the page at you and suit the thunderous poetry about the wild trickster of existence written by a poet who himself had godlike looks and talent. Hughes's language is incantatory, aggressive, and riveting. The language struts like you'd expect Crow to strut after having scared the dawn away or found some deliciously foul meal. I've read this several times. In the same way I do with Eliot, I have to occasionally touch base with these irresistible poems about a bird larger than all existence who's probably responsible for all existence.
January 19, 2021
When the pistol muzzle oozing blue vapour
Was lifted away
Like a cigarette lifted from an ashtray
And the only face left in the world
Lay broken
Between hands that relaxed, being too late
And the trees closed forever
And the streets closed forever
And the body lay on the gravel
Of the abandoned world
Among abandoned utilities
Exposed to infinity forever
Crow had to start searching for something to eat.
February 21, 2014
the finest cycle of poetry I've ever read - warm, meaty, harsh and cawing likes it's title suggests. Bullets wouldn't cut through this fleshy example of what one could do with verse, just don't forget to turn the gas off...
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