♥ Loving Sylvia Plath ♥
Hi! My other blog is unevieamoureuse.tumblr.com, the one that you so rudely commented on.
1.) You may not think its a good poem, but I do! I really loved it actually.
2.) I did not post it without "thinking or looking" or whatever you said, but actually found that poem after reading a few articles! I'll paste them here http://www.theawl.com/2010/10/the-newly-released-ted-hughes-poem and http://news.bbc.co.uk/local/devon/hi/people_and_places/arts_and_culture/newsid_9069000/9069758.stm. Now I don't know if my sources are incorrect, maybe I got something wrong and that's fine, but don't suggest that I haven't "thought" abouyt it because Sylvia Plath is one of my favorite poets!

Are you for real???? I’m really HORRIFIED that you believe this is a poem by Ted Hughes (or any poem at all)!!!!!… I checked a few times, if I’m missing a hidden link or something, but all I see is this picture and your description. How is this possible? How anyone could believe that this is a POEM that this is something a poet laureate (or anyone) would write (after his wife’s suicide)!?!?!?!

"For Sylvia and for Cheeseburgers"

By Ted Theodore Hughes

When I heard you killed your-
self, my first thought was

I gotta burn those Journals
of Hers! They make me look

Like a fucking creep! Abd then
I got a cheesburger! Yum.

Sylvia, you will always be a
better poet than me, and I’ll

Always vaguely cash in on the
fame of your suicide. But

Now you’re dead. So you’ll never
get to be poet laureate.

Which is too bad because you
would have been a hot one.

I am going to go cheat on
my new wife now. And write

Fox poems for the next 50 years.
Have you seen my brown shoes?

I guess I will never find them now.

You say, I’m rude? Fine, maybe I am this time. But how can someone not be, when seeing something like this?

You say, you love Ted and Sylvia’s poetry?? Hard to believe! Did you ever read anything from them? If so, HOW CAN YOU THINK THIS IS A POEM BY TED HUGHES??????? First, I had a laugh and I had to add it to my Last Letter-myths, now I’m shocked!

You said, you read a few articles on this poem? You gave me a link http://www.theawl.com/2010/10/the-newly-released-ted-hughes-poem Maybe you should rethink your sources. You read many articles on THIS poem??? Really???? How is this possible that when someone is trying to find Ted Hughes’s Last Letter finds this?? Has the internet  become such a dumpster now? Sorry, if I offended you for posting this masterpiece… it certainly has nothing to o with this crap here or here or here, posted by some serious idiot newspapers! Shame on me for being so EVIL:(

unevieamoureuse:

Excerpt from Last Letter, the recently discovered/never before seen Ted Hughes poem written about the days leading up to Sylvia Plath’s death. Their lives were tragic, but their poetry..so, so good.
***

Buaaaaaaaaahahahha… this is a good one! REALLY??? I mean REALLY???
Do people really blog/reblog stuff without even looking (or thinking)??? Buauauahaha… that’s the greatest “Last Letter”-myth I’ve seen so far!!!! And… REALLY… this, good poetry (even if it was the poem)? I mean, REALLY??? ;)
***
I think many people still don’t get it - LOOK AT THE PICTURE AND THEN AT THE DESCRIPTION: "Excerpt from Last Letter" - REALLY!??!?!

unevieamoureuse:

Excerpt from Last Letter, the recently discovered/never before seen Ted Hughes poem written about the days leading up to Sylvia Plath’s death. Their lives were tragic, but their poetry..so, so good.

***

Buaaaaaaaaahahahha… this is a good one! REALLY??? I mean REALLY???

Do people really blog/reblog stuff without even looking (or thinking)??? Buauauahaha… that’s the greatest “Last Letter”-myth I’ve seen so far!!!! And… REALLY… this, good poetry (even if it was the poem)? I mean, REALLY??? ;)

***

I think many people still don’t get it - LOOK AT THE PICTURE AND THEN AT THE DESCRIPTION: "Excerpt from Last Letter" - REALLY!??!?!

lumos:

Ted Hughes and Sylvia Plath
I am busily looking for the recently published and previously unseen poem by Ted Hughes of the days leading up to Plath’s suicide; ‘Last Letter’. I can’t find a transcript, and the New Statesman article it was in is no longer the current issue. Bloody Melvyn Bragg.

How about trying here? ;)

lumos:

Ted Hughes and Sylvia Plath

I am busily looking for the recently published and previously unseen poem by Ted Hughes of the days leading up to Plath’s suicide; ‘Last Letter’. I can’t find a transcript, and the New Statesman article it was in is no longer the current issue. Bloody Melvyn Bragg.

How about trying here? ;)

Since I’ve seen many people posting this… Just a hint - THIS IS NOT THE WHOLE POEM!!!!
The whole poem is muuuuch loooooonger and you can read it here!

Since I’ve seen many people posting this… Just a hint - THIS IS NOT THE WHOLE POEM!!!!

The whole poem is muuuuch loooooonger and you can read it here!

WHO IS SUSAN?

Excerpt form Ted Hughes’s Last Letter


That night
My dellarobbia Susan. I moved
With the circumspection
Of a flame in a fuse. My whole fury
Was an abandoned effort to blow up
The old globe where shadows bent over
My telltale track of ashes. I raced
From and from, face backwards, a film reversed,
Towards what? We went to Rugby St
Where you and I began.
Why did we go there? Of all places
Why did we go there? Perversity
In the artistry of our fate
Adjusted its refinements for you, for me
And for Susan. Solitaire
Played by the Minotaur of that maze
Even included Helen, in the ground-floor flat.
You had noted her—-a girl for a story.
You never met her. Few ever met her,
Except across the ears and raving mask
Of her Alsatian. You had not even glimpsed her.
You had only recoiled
When her demented animal crashed its weight
Against her door, as we slipped through the hallway;
And heard it choking on infinite German hatred.

That Sunday night she eased her door open
Its few permitted inches.
Susan greeted the black eyes, the unhappy
Overweight, lovely face, that peeped out
Across the little chain. The door closed.
We heard her consoling her jailor
Inside her cell, its kennel, where, days later,
She gassed her ferocious kupo, and herself.

Susan and I spent that night
In our wedding bed. I had not seen it
Since we lay there on our wedding day.
I did not take her back to my own bed.
It had occurred to me, your weekend over,
You might appear—-a surprise visitation.
Did you appear, to tap at my dark window?
So I stayed with Susan, hiding from you,
In our own wedding bed—-the same from which
Within three years she would be taken to die
In that same hospital where, within twelve hours,
I would find you dead.
                                                  Monday morning
I drove her to work, in the City,
Then parked my van North of Euston Road
And returned to where my telephone waited.


***

Some of you wrote me a message asking if I know who Susan is. Honestly I had no clue and I wrongly assumed that it was somehow Ted’s pseudonym for Assia. But I was really wrong!

I asked Peter K Steinberg, what I should have done immediately instead of speculating… here is his answer…

"That is Susan Alliston, a poet that Hughes knew - I guess in both a platonic and biblical sense. Recently Alliston’s poems were published with an intro Hughes wrote for them by the same press that published Daniel Huws’ memoir and Lucas Myers new memoirs.

If we take the poem at face value Hughes was still married to Plath, but seeing both Assia and Susan. A revelation for sure.

You can learn more about her here.”

I certainly didn’t know anything about that. Don’t remember if it was mentioned in Lover of Unreason and since I didn’t read Ted’s biography yet, I don’t know if there are more informations about this relationship. If I find something, I let you know!

Hope that helps a little!

xoxo, Anna

Who is the Susan that Ted mentions in his 'Last Letter' ?

I’m not really sure, but I assume he must be talking about Assia Wevill and calling her Susan for some reason?

Because, from reading Assia’s and Sylvia’s biographies as well as various essays and articles, she was the woman he defninitely was invoved with at that time.

If so, I really have no clue why he might be calling her Susan!?

But if I find out more, I’m gonna share with you guys!

Cheers :)

"Last Letter"-myths!!!!

Hahahahaha! Not even 24 hours have passed since the publication of Ted Hughes’s “Last Letter” poem in The NewStatesman and it already leaked the internet… and with it… the myths started… this is CRAZY… not even 24 hours and people are mixing and making things up!!!!

See, I’m sure this is how the bray/brag-thing started, too!

Here you go… found these “Last Letter”-myths - ALREADY:

1) Ted Hughes’ Lost Poem On Sylvia Plath’s Suicide Unveiled via Jezebel.com

WTF????? LOST? Why? How? Who said it was lost????? WHAT??? CRAZY!?!?!

2) “Last Letter” lost-until-now Ted Hughes poem about Sylvia Plath’s suicide via http://lyrabelacqua.tumblr.com/

See!!! That’s what I’m talking about! One person says it was LOST-UNTIL-NOW and the rumor has started!!!

3) Ted Hughes’s last poem via http://poetswarm.tumblr.com

Why??? Why? Why? Why? Again, did I miss something??? Who said it is his LAST POEM???!! Give me a source!! Tell me a name!!!

Besides, it’s only a part of the poem!

4) Never before poem by Sylvia Plath just published via http://jeblue.tumblr.com

Excuse me, but did you even read the a) poem and b) what you wrote???

Today New Statesman published “Last Letter,” a previously unseen Ted Hughes poem about the three days before Sylvia Plath’s suicide.

So, who wrote it now… Sylvia or Ted???? Is it by Ted Hughes or by Sylvia Plath? Is it a Sylvia Plath poem or a Ted Hughes poem?? Or maybe they wrote it together? The “Never Before Poem”!? ;)

5) A newly discovered Ted Hughes poem written immediately after Sylvia Plath’s death via http://www.guardian.co.uk !!!!!!!!!!!!

(Thank you, Peter)

Where does this information come from??? Who said he wrote it immediately after her death? Who/where is the source? Why do people need to add drama to an already spectacular story in itself? This is ridiculous!

***

Honestly people, do you really not care at all? Is it just COOL to have a “never before lost last poem” on your blog?? Please read and blog more carefully! Add sources, dates, authors and don’t spread wrong facts!

I still know, it’s all throwing pearls before swine, but I have to try!

Just imagine… it’s not even 24 hours… what will be in a week, a month or even a year???!!

I’m gonna update it on a regular basis! If you find something, please let me know!?

"Last Letter" by Ted Hughes

What happened that night? Your final night.
Double, treble exposure
Over everything. Late afternoon, Friday,
My last sight of you alive.
Burning your letter to me, in the ashtray,
With that strange smile. Had I bungled your plan?
Had it surprised me sooner than you purposed?
Had I rushed it back to you too promptly?
One hour later—-you would have been gone
Where I could not have traced you.
I would have turned from your locked red door
That nobody would open
Still holding your letter,
A thunderbolt that could not earth itself.
That would have been electric shock treatment
For me.
Repeated over and over, all weekend,
As often as I read it, or thought of it.
That would have remade my brains, and my life.
The treatment that you planned needed some time.
I cannot imagine
How I would have got through that weekend.
I cannot imagine. Had you plotted it all?

Your note reached me too soon—-that same day,
Friday afternoon, posted in the morning.
The prevalent devils expedited it.
That was one more straw of ill-luck
Drawn against you by the Post-Office
And added to your load. I moved fast,
Through the snow-blue, February, London twilight.
Wept with relief when you opened the door.
A huddle of riddles in solution. Precocious tears
That failed to interpret to me, failed to divulge
Their real import. But what did you say
Over the smoking shards of that letter
So carefully annihilated, so calmly,
That let me release you, and leave you
To blow its ashes off your plan—-off the ashtray
Against which you would lean for me to read
The Doctor’s phone-number.
                                                 My escape
Had become such a hunted thing
Sleepless, hopeless, all its dreams exhausted,
Only wanting to be recaptured, only
Wanting to drop, out of its vacuum.
Two days of dangling nothing. Two days gratis.
Two days in no calendar, but stolen
From no world,
Beyond actuality, feeling, or name.

My love-life grabbed it. My numbed love-life
With its two mad needles,
Embroidering their rose, piercing and tugging
At their tapestry, their bloody tattoo
Somewhere behind my navel,
Treading that morass of emblazon,
Two mad needles, criss-crossing their stitches,
Selecting among my nerves
For their colours, refashioning me
Inside my own skin, each refashioning the other
With their self-caricatures,

Their obsessed in and out. Two women
Each with her needle.

                                       That night
My dellarobbia Susan. I moved
With the circumspection
Of a flame in a fuse. My whole fury
Was an abandoned effort to blow up
The old globe where shadows bent over
My telltale track of ashes. I raced
From and from, face backwards, a film reversed,
Towards what? We went to Rugby St
Where you and I began.
Why did we go there? Of all places
Why did we go there? Perversity
In the artistry of our fate
Adjusted its refinements for you, for me
And for Susan. Solitaire
Played by the Minotaur of that maze
Even included Helen, in the ground-floor flat.
You had noted her—-a girl for a story.
You never met her. Few ever met her,
Except across the ears and raving mask
Of her Alsatian. You had not even glimpsed her.
You had only recoiled
When her demented animal crashed its weight
Against her door, as we slipped through the hallway;
And heard it choking on infinite German hatred.

That Sunday night she eased her door open
Its few permitted inches.
Susan greeted the black eyes, the unhappy
Overweight, lovely face, that peeped out
Across the little chain. The door closed.
We heard her consoling her jailor
Inside her cell, its kennel, where, days later,
She gassed her ferocious kupo, and herself.

Susan and I spent that night
In our wedding bed. I had not seen it
Since we lay there on our wedding day.
I did not take her back to my own bed.
It had occurred to me, your weekend over,
You might appear—-a surprise visitation.
Did you appear, to tap at my dark window?
So I stayed with Susan, hiding from you,
In our own wedding bed—-the same from which
Within three years she would be taken to die
In that same hospital where, within twelve hours,
I would find you dead.
                                                  Monday morning
I drove her to work, in the City,
Then parked my van North of Euston Road
And returned to where my telephone waited.

What happened that night, inside your hours,
Is as unknown as if it never happened.
What accumulation of your whole life,
Like effort unconscious, like birth
Pushing through the membrane of each slow second
Into the next, happened
Only as if it could not happen,
As if it was not happening. How often
Did the phone ring there in my empty room,
You hearing the ring in your receiver—-
At both ends the fading memory
Of a telephone ringing, in a brain
As if already dead. I count
How often you walked to the phone-booth
At the bottom of St George’s terrace.
You are there whenever I look, just turning
Out of Fitzroy Road, crossing over
Between the heaped up banks of dirty sugar.
In your long black coat,
With your plait coiled up at the back of your hair
You walk unable to move, or wake, and are
Already nobody walking
Walking by the railings under Primrose Hill
Towards the phone booth that can never be reached.
Before midnight. After midnight. Again.
Again. Again. And, near dawn, again.

At what position of the hands on my watch-face
Did your last attempt,
Already deeply past
My being able to hear it, shake the pillow
Of that empty bed? A last time
Lightly touch at my books, and my papers?
By the time I got there my phone was asleep.
The pillow innocent. My room slept,
Already filled with the snowlit morning light.
I lit my fire. I had got out my papers.
And I had started to write when the telephone
Jerked awake, in a jabbering alarm,
Remembering everything. It recovered in my hand.
Then a voice like a selected weapon
Or a measured injection,
Coolly delivered its four words
Deep into my ear: ‘Your wife is dead.’

Let’s continue with ANNE SEXTON-Week

So, I guess Sylvia didn’t allow Anne to take her thunder this week ;)

I suggest, we continue with Anne Sexton-Week then, because it might take a while longer until “Last Letter” leaks the internet. :)

Before we get to read the WHOLE poem! And don’t let anyone fool you! Some people claim it’s has been published in The Daily Mail, but this is definitely not the WHOLE poem!!!

So, be patient… it will be published by The NewStatesman today and hopefully it will also be online in full length very soon!

I’M SOOO EXCITED!!!!! ♥♥♥♥♥

Can’t wait to read it!!!!

I always knew there is MORE hidden somewhere! I bet this is not the end! There will be much more to come!

And I’m also sooooo sure there will be another big bang on February 11, 2013!!! I’m 100% sure, Ted Hughes didn’t unseal everything back in 1998!!!!

CAN’T WAIT!!!!!! :)))))))

Watch actor Jonathan Pryce read extracts from “Last Letter” for Channel 4 News & other infos regarding the discovery!

via

Three DRAFTS of Ted Hughes’s “Last Letter” poem!

The poem, “Last Letter” will be published in full in the New Statesman tomorrow!!!

For more informations see also the following links!

NewStatesman:

Hughes’s best-known work is 1998’s Birthday Letters, a collection of poems that detail his relationship with Plath. Though the published poems make reference to Plath’s suicide, which occurred in February 1963, when she and Hughes were separated but still married, none of them addresses directly the circumstances of her death. This, then, would appear to be the “missing link” in the sequence.

Channel 4 News:

'The darkest poem he has ever written'
Poet Laureate Carol Ann Duffy told Channel 4 News Last Letter was “almost unbearable to read.”

"It feels a bit like looking into the sun as it’s dying," she said.

"It’s a poem of deep complicated feelings and in some ways it’s the heart of Birthday Letters. I think its absence from that original collection makes the collection more powerful. It stands, for me, as a poem on its own.

"It’s a poem that will speak in the way that a Shakespearean tragedy does to people who’ve had the misfortune to touch on those issues. It shows how a suicide can scar the lives of those who still have to live after that death.

"It seems to me to be the darkest poem that he wrote about the death of Sylvia Plath. There is a kind of deafening agony, blinding agony to this new poem. It seems to touch a deeper, darker place than any poem he’s ever written."

BBC News:

The poem begins: “What happened that night? Your final night.”

It then details, in chronological order, the last weekend of Plath’s life, in February 1963, when she and Hughes were still married but living apart.

It begins with Plath sending Hughes a letter, which is intended to arrive after the weekend, but is delivered early.
Ted Hughes Ted Hughes was Poet Laureate from 1984 until his death in 1998

The poem goes on to describe Hughes rushing to her house, where Plath reassures him that everything is fine. He leaves and she ultimately takes her own life.