{"id":17584,"date":"2010-10-15T00:01:35","date_gmt":"2010-10-15T04:01:35","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/fryeblog.blog.lib.mcmaster.ca\/?p=17584"},"modified":"2010-10-15T00:01:35","modified_gmt":"2010-10-15T04:01:35","slug":"ted-hughes-last-letter","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/macblog.mcmaster.ca\/fryeblog\/2010\/10\/15\/ted-hughes-last-letter\/","title":{"rendered":"Ted Hughes: “Last Letter”"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

Ted Hughes<\/a>‘s previously unknown poem about Sylvia Plath<\/a>‘s suicide has recently surfaced.<\/p>\n

Article in The Guardian <\/em>here<\/a>.<\/p>\n

Full text of the poem after the jump.<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

“Last Letter”<\/p>\n

What happened that night? Your final night.
\nDouble, treble exposure
\nOver everything. Late afternoon, Friday,
\nMy last sight of you alive.
\nBurning your letter to me, in the ashtray,
\nWith that strange smile. Had I bungled your plan?
\nHad it surprised me sooner than you purposed?
\nHad I rushed it back to you too promptly?
\nOne hour later\u2014-you would have been gone
\nWhere I could not have traced you.
\nI would have turned from your locked red door
\nThat nobody would open
\nStill holding your letter,
\nA thunderbolt that could not earth itself.
\nThat would have been electric shock treatment
\nFor me.
\nRepeated over and over, all weekend,
\nAs often as I read it, or thought of it.
\nThat would have remade my brains, and my life.
\nThe treatment that you planned needed some time.
\nI cannot imagine
\nHow I would have got through that weekend.
\nI cannot imagine. Had you plotted it all?<\/p>\n

Your note reached me too soon\u2014-that same day,
\nFriday afternoon, posted in the morning.
\nThe prevalent devils expedited it.
\nThat was one more straw of ill-luck
\nDrawn against you by the Post-Office
\nAnd added to your load. I moved fast,
\nThrough the snow-blue, February, London twilight.
\nWept with relief when you opened the door.
\nA huddle of riddles in solution. Precocious tears
\nThat failed to interpret to me, failed to divulge
\nTheir real import. But what did you say
\nOver the smoking shards of that letter
\nSo carefully annihilated, so calmly,
\nThat let me release you, and leave you
\nTo blow its ashes off your plan\u2014-off the ashtray
\nAgainst which you would lean for me to read
\nThe Doctor\u2019s phone-number.
\nMy escape
\nHad become such a hunted thing
\nSleepless, hopeless, all its dreams exhausted,
\nOnly wanting to be recaptured, only
\nWanting to drop, out of its vacuum.
\nTwo days of dangling nothing. Two days gratis.
\nTwo days in no calendar, but stolen
\nFrom no world,
\nBeyond actuality, feeling, or name.<\/p>\n

My love-life grabbed it. My numbed love-life
\nWith its two mad needles,
\nEmbroidering their rose, piercing and tugging
\nAt their tapestry, their bloody tattoo
\nSomewhere behind my navel,
\nTreading that morass of emblazon,
\nTwo mad needles, criss-crossing their stitches,
\nSelecting among my nerves
\nFor their colours, refashioning me
\nInside my own skin, each refashioning the other
\nWith their self-caricatures,<\/p>\n

Their obsessed in and out. Two women
\nEach with her needle.<\/p>\n

That night
\nMy dellarobbia Susan. I moved
\nWith the circumspection
\nOf a flame in a fuse. My whole fury
\nWas an abandoned effort to blow up
\nThe old globe where shadows bent over
\nMy telltale track of ashes. I raced
\nFrom and from, face backwards, a film reversed,
\nTowards what? We went to Rugby St
\nWhere you and I began.
\nWhy did we go there? Of all places
\nWhy did we go there? Perversity
\nIn the artistry of our fate
\nAdjusted its refinements for you, for me
\nAnd for Susan. Solitaire
\nPlayed by the Minotaur of that maze
\nEven included Helen, in the ground-floor flat.
\nYou had noted her\u2014-a girl for a story.
\nYou never met her. Few ever met her,
\nExcept across the ears and raving mask
\nOf her Alsatian. You had not even glimpsed her.
\nYou had only recoiled
\nWhen her demented animal crashed its weight
\nAgainst her door, as we slipped through the hallway;
\nAnd heard it choking on infinite German hatred.<\/p>\n

That Sunday night she eased her door open
\nIts few permitted inches.
\nSusan greeted the black eyes, the unhappy
\nOverweight, lovely face, that peeped out
\nAcross the little chain. The door closed.
\nWe heard her consoling her jailor
\nInside her cell, its kennel, where, days later,
\nShe gassed her ferocious kapo, and herself.<\/p>\n

Susan and I spent that night
\nIn our wedding bed. I had not seen it
\nSince we lay there on our wedding day.
\nI did not take her back to my own bed.
\nIt had occurred to me, your weekend over,
\nYou might appear\u2014-a surprise visitation.
\nDid you appear, to tap at my dark window?
\nSo I stayed with Susan, hiding from you,
\nIn our own wedding bed\u2014-the same from which
\nWithin three years she would be taken to die
\nIn that same hospital where, within twelve hours,
\nI would find you dead.
\nMonday morning
\nI drove her to work, in the City,
\nThen parked my van North of Euston Road
\nAnd returned to where my telephone waited.<\/p>\n

What happened that night, inside your hours,
\nIs as unknown as if it never happened.
\nWhat accumulation of your whole life,
\nLike effort unconscious, like birth
\nPushing through the membrane of each slow second
\nInto the next, happened
\nOnly as if it could not happen,
\nAs if it was not happening. How often
\nDid the phone ring there in my empty room,
\nYou hearing the ring in your receiver\u2014-
\nAt both ends the fading memory
\nOf a telephone ringing, in a brain
\nAs if already dead. I count
\nHow often you walked to the phone-booth
\nAt the bottom of St George\u2019s terrace.
\nYou are there whenever I look, just turning
\nOut of Fitzroy Road, crossing over
\nBetween the heaped up banks of dirty sugar.
\nIn your long black coat,
\nWith your plait coiled up at the back of your hair
\nYou walk unable to move, or wake, and are
\nAlready nobody walking
\nWalking by the railings under Primrose Hill
\nTowards the phone booth that can never be reached.
\nBefore midnight. After midnight. Again.
\nAgain. Again. And, near dawn, again.<\/p>\n

At what position of the hands on my watch-face
\nDid your last attempt,
\nAlready deeply past
\nMy being able to hear it, shake the pillow
\nOf that empty bed? A last time
\nLightly touch at my books, and my papers?
\nBy the time I got there my phone was asleep.
\nThe pillow innocent. My room slept,
\nAlready filled with the snowlit morning light.
\nI lit my fire. I had got out my papers.
\nAnd I had started to write when the telephone
\nJerked awake, in a jabbering alarm,
\nRemembering everything. It recovered in my hand.
\nThen a voice like a selected weapon
\nOr a measured injection,
\nCoolly delivered its four words
\nDeep into my ear: \u2018Your wife is dead.\u2019<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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