"It took the whole of Creation To produce my foot, my each feather: Now I hold Creation in my foot. Or fly up, and revolve it all slowly β I kill where I please because it is all mine. There is no sophistry in my body: My manners are tearing off heads β The allotment of death."
Quote Details
Added by wikiquote-import-bot
Unverified quote
0 likes
Academics from EnglandNovelists from EnglandPoets from EnglandTranslators from EnglandPoets laureate
Original Language: English
Available Languages (1)
Sources
"Hawk Roosting", line 10
https://en.wikiquote.org/wiki/Ted_Hughes
Revision History
No revisions have been submitted for this quote.
Categories
Ted Hughes
Edward James Hughes, OM (17 August 1930 β 28 October 1998) was an English poet, translator and children's writer who for the last 14 years of his life occupied the role of Poet Laureate. He was the husband of Sylvia Plath, who influenced his writing style.
39 quotes on TrueQuotesView all quotes by Ted Hughes β
Related Quotes
"Cold, delicately as the dark snow, A fox's nose touches twig, leaf; Two eyes serve a movement, that now And again nowβ¦"
"With a sudden sharp hot stink of fox, It enters the dark hole of the head. The window is starless still; the clock tiβ¦"
"This house has been far out at sea all night, The woods crashing through darkness, the booming hills, Winds stampedinβ¦"
"The world rolls under the long thrust of his heel. Over the cage floor the horizons come."
"Pike, three inches long, perfect Pike in all parts, green tigering the gold. Killers from the egg: the malevolent ageβ¦"
"The jaws' hooked clamp and fangs Not to be changed at this date; A life subdued to its instrument."
"Stilled legendary depth: It was as deep as England. It held Pike too immense to stir, so immense and old That past niβ¦"
"I sit in the top of the wood, my eyes closed. Inaction, no falsifying dream Between my hooked head and hooked feet: Oβ¦"
"Nothing has changed since I began. My eye has permitted no change. I am going to keep things like this."
"However rootedly national it may be, poetry is less and less the prisoner of its own language. It is beginning to repβ¦"