Poet Laureate Ted Hughes' Birthplace For Sale ...

A friend is the current owner (but not for long!) of the home where poet laureate Ted Hughes was born (17 August 1930). The home is located at 1 Aspinall Street, Mytholmroyd, West Yorkshire. As of 21 February 2005 the house is under offer subject to contract . . . visit www.tedhughes.org to find out more about the property, and the progress of the sale.

I wish my friend much luck on this exciting endeavor.

On a related note, Sylvia Plath is one of my favorite poets .. her poems are full of rage and conviction. You can't ask for more.

another point of view ...

Anonymous Anonymous

Gwyneth Paltrow's biopic of Sylvia Plath in "Sylvia" was horrible. Save your money. Don't see it. Don't rent it. That should have been a straight-to-TV-or-DVD production.

Anonymous B. Davis

Your friend sell the house yet? I'm just curious because I think that's so cool to live in a famous house. I'm buying Michael Jackson's Neverland Ranch if I can.

- B. Davis

Anonymous Anonymous

I saw the movie "Sylvia" and it was terrible. Don't waste your money.

- gone to the movie

Anonymous Keirsten Lamar

My favorite Sylvia Plath poem: Metaphors

I'm a riddle in nine syllables.
An elephant, a ponderous house,
A melon strolling on two tendrils.
O red fruit, ivory, fine timbers!
This loaf's big with its yeasty rising.
Money's new-minted in this fat purse.
I'm a means, a stage, a cow in calf.
I've eaten a bag of green apples,
Boarded the train there's no getting off.

Keirsten Lamar

Blogger Nam LaMore

A favorite poem by Plath:
"The Arrival of the Bee Box"

I ordered this, clean wood box
Square as a chair and almost too heavy to lift.
I would say it was the coffin of a midget
Or a square baby
Were there not such a din in it.

The box is locked, it is dangerous.
I have to live with it overnight
And I can't keep away from it.
There are no windows, so I can't see what is in there.
There is only a little grid, no exit.

I put my eye to the grid.
It is dark, dark,
With the swarmy feeling of African hands
Minute and shrunk for export,
Black on black, angrily clambering.

How can I let them out?
It is the noise that appalls me most of all,
The unintelligible syllables.
It is like a Roman mob,
Small, taken one by one, but my god, together!

I lay my ear to furious Latin.
I am not a Caesar.
I have simply ordered a box of maniacs.
They can be sent back.
They can die, I need feed them nothing, I am the owner.

I wonder how hungry they are.
I wonder if they would forget me
If I just undid the locks and stood back and turned into a tree.
There is the laburnum, its blond colonnades,
And the petticoats of the cherry.

They might ignore me immediately
In my moon suit and funeral veil.
I am no source of honey
So why should they turn on me?
Tomorrow I will be sweet God, I will set them free.

The box is only temporary.


Blogger Nam LaMore

Sylvia Plath: "Mushroom":

Overnight, very
Whitely, discreetly,
Very quietly

Our toes, our noses
Take hold on the loam,
Acquire the air.

Nobody sees us,
Stops us, betrays us;
The small grains make room.

Soft fists insist on
Heaving the needles,
The leafy bedding,

Even the paving.
Our hammers, our rams,
Earless and eyeless,

Perfectly voiceless,
Widen the crannies,
Shoulder through holes. We

Diet on water,
On crumbs of shadow,
Bland-mannered, asking

Little or nothing.
So many of us!
So many of us!

We are shelves, we are
Tables, we are meek,
We are edible,

Nudgers and shovers
In spite of ourselves.
Our kind multiplies:

We shall by morning
Inherit the earth.
Our foot's in the door.


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