Wallowing in the Words of FARMER

National Poetry Month officially starts April 1st and guess who I chose?

(thanks for the suggestion “gs”)

Frieda Rebecca Hughes was born April 1, 1960 to poets Sylvia Plath and Ted Hughes. frieda

In all honesty I hadn’t read Frieda’s poetry though I did stalk her a little last year.  Not in the literal/physical sense. I’m not that disturbed – okay maybe that is debatable but anyway…

You see last April I was obsessing over her mother and the tragedies that surrounded young Frieda Hughes. Thank goodness the July heat cured me – at least I thought it did. Now I find myself wallowing in this poem.
I will not dissect FARMER or delve into the misfortunes of Ms. Hughes today. Instead I would like to point out that Frieda went on to become an artist in her own right. She is not only an author and a poet she is a [talented] painter as well.


by Frieda Hughes

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.

P.S. HaPpY BiRthDaY Frieda Hughes.

Photo courtesy of friedahughes.com


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