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Ted Hugues, quelques poèmes

Publié par Folfaerie

Ted Hugues (1930-1998) est un poète et écrivain  anglais que je connaissais surtout parce qu’il avait été le mari de la poétesse américaine Sylvia Plath. Comme toujours lorsque je découvre un poète, c’est davantage les thèmes qu’il aborde qui m’intéresse, plus que la forme. Hugues, a été élevé dans un milieu rural et se premières années passées à la ferme l’ont considérablement influencé. C’est ainsi que ses premières œuvres poétiques sont fortement inspirées par la nature ou encore l'innocente sauvagerie des animaux. Quelques années plus tard, il abordera le thème des mythes, dans la tradition des bardes gaéliques, ce qui me plait infiniment. Je débute donc mon exploration de son œuvre, au gré de mes trouvailles sur le web. En voici quelques uns qui me plaisent particulièrement.

The Thought-Fox
 I imagine this midnight moment's forest:
Something else is alive
Beside the clock's loneliness
And this blank page where my fingers move.

Through the window I see no star:
Something more near
Though deeper within darkness
Is entering the loneliness:

Cold, delicately as the dark snow,
A fox's nose touches twig, leaf;
Two eyes serve a movement, that now
And again now, and now, and now

Sets neat prints into the snow
Between trees, and warily a lame
Shadow lags by stump and in hollow
Of a body that is bold to come

Across clearings, an eye,
A widening deepening greenness,
Brilliantly, concentratedly,
Coming about its own business

Till, with sudden sharp hot stink of fox
It enters the dark hole of the head.
The window is starless still; the clock ticks,
The page is printed.
We sit late, watching the dark slowly unfold:
No clock counts this.
When kisses are repeated and the arms hold
There is no telling where time is.

It is midsummer: the leaves hang big and still:
Behind the eye a star,
Under the silk of the wrist a sea, tell
Time is nowhere.

We stand; leaves have not timed the summer.
No clock now needs
Tell we have only what we remember:
Minutes uproaring with our heads

Like an unfortunate King's and his Queen's
When the senseless mob rules;
And quietly the trees casting their crowns
Into the pools.
This house has been far out at sea all night,
The woods crashing through darkness, the booming hills,
Winds stampeding the fields under the window
Floundering black astride and blinding wet

Till day rose; then under an orange sky
The hills had new places, and wind wielded
Blade-light, luminous black and emerald,
Flexing like the lens of a mad eye.

At noon I scaled along the house-side as far as
The coal-house door. Once I looked up -
Through the brunt wind that dented the balls of my eyes
The tent of the hills drummed and strained its guyrope,

The fields quivering, the skyline a grimace,
At any second to bang and vanish with a flap;
The wind flung a magpie away and a black-
Back gull bent like an iron bar slowly. The house

Rang like some fine green goblet in the note
That any second would shatter it. Now deep
In chairs, in front of the great fire, we grip
Our hearts and cannot entertain book, thought,

Or each other. We watch the fire blazing,
And feel the roots of the house move, but sit on,
Seeing the window tremble to come in,
Hearing the stones cry out under the horizons.



O lady, when the tipped cup of the moon blessed you
You became soft fire with a cloud's grace;
The difficult stars swam for eyes in your face;
You stood, and your shadow was my place:
You turned, your shadow turned to ice
    O my lady. 

O lady, when the sea caressed you
You were a marble of foam, but dumb.
When will the stone open its tomb?
When will the waves give over their foam?
You will not die, nor come home,
    O my lady.


O lady, when the wind kissed you
You made him music for you were a shaped shell.
I follow the waters and the wind still
Since my heart heard it and all to pieces fell
Which your lovers stole, meaning ill,
    O my lady.


O lady, consider when I shall have lost you
The moon's full hands, scattering waste,
The sea's hands, dark from the world's breast,
The world's decay where the wind's hands have passed,
And my head, worn out with love, at rest
In my hands, and my hands full of dust,
    O my lady.


Ce dernier poème, je l'ai découvert parce qu'il figure dans un catalogue sonore et est récité par le talentueux Richard Armitage...


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Adalana 25/04/2012 01:20

Je retiens une écriture superbe et une histoire très triste, d'autant qu'elle est en partie autobiographique.

Adalana 23/04/2012 15:27

Je viens de lire le roman "La cloche de détresse" de Sylvia Plath et suis justement tombée sur le nom de son mari, Ted Hugues. Grâce à toi, je découvre ces poèmes, merci !

Folfaerie 24/04/2012 20:58

Et bien de rien ! Par contre, moi je n'ai jamais lu un des romans de Sylvia Plath, comment l'as-tu trouvé ?

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