from The City

Your poems are like a dark city centre.
Your novel, your stories, your journals, your letters, are suburbs
Of this big city.
The hotels are lit like office blocks all night
With scholars, priests, pilgrims. It’s at night
Sometimes I drive through. I just find
Myself driving through, going slow, simply
Roaming in my own darkness, pondering
What you did. Nearly always
I glimpse you – at some crossing,
Staring upwards, lost, sixty year old.

by Ted Hughes,
printed in The London Sunday Times (international edition), October 26, 1997, Book Section, Page 8-4.

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Ted Hughes on Sylvia Plath

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