The City The Rag Rug
Your poems are like a dark city centre. Somebody had made one. You admired it
your novel, your stories, your journals, your So you began to make your rag rug.
letters, are suburbs You needed to do it. Played on by lightnings
Of this big city. You needed an earth. Maybe. Or needed
The hotels are lit like office blocks all night To pull something out of yourself-
With scholars, priests, pilgrims. It's at night Some tapeworm of the psyche. I was simply
Sometimes I drive through. I just find Happy to watch your scissors being fearless
Myself driving through, going slow, simply ...
Roaming in my own darkness, pondering Whenever you worked at your carpet I felt happy
What you did. Nearly always Then I could read Conrad's novels to you.
I glimpse you - at some crossing, I could cradle your freed mind in my voice,
Staring upwards, lost, sixty year old. Chapter by chapter, sentence by sentence,
Word by word: "Heart of Darkness,"
I dreamed of our house
Before we ever found it. A great snake
Lifted its head from a well in the middle of the house
Exactly where the well is, beneath its slab,
In the middle of the house.
A golden serpent, thick as a child's body,
Eased from the opened well. And poured out
Poema de Ted Hughes impreso en "Through the back door, a length that seemed unending"