(no subject)
The Tender Place.
Ted Hughes
Your temples, where the hair crowded in,
Were the tender place. Once to check
I dropped a file across the electrodes
Of a twelve-volt battery -- it exploded
Like a grenade. Somebody wired you up.
Somebody pushed the lever. They crashed
The thunderbolt into your skull.
In their bleached coats, with blenched faces,
They hovered again
To see how you were, in your straps.
Whether your teeth were still whole.
The hand on the calibrated lever
Again feeling nothing
Except the feeling nothing pushed to feel
Some squirm of sensation. Terror
Was the cloud of you
Waiting for these lightnings. I saw
n oak limb sheared at a bang.
You your Daddy's leg. How many seizures
Did you suffer this God to grab you
By the roots of the hair? The reports
Escaped back into clouds. What went up
Vaporised. Where lightning rods wept copper
And the nerve threw off its skin
Like a burning child
Scampering out of the bomb-flash.
They dropped you
A rigid bent bit of wire
Across the Boston City grid. The lights
In the Senate House dipped
As your voice dived inwards
Right through the bolt-hole basement.
Came up, years later,
Over-exposed, like an X-Ray --
Brain-map still dark-patched
With the scorched-earth scars
Of your retreat. And you words,
Faces reversed from the light,
Holding in their entrails.
Ted Hughes
Your temples, where the hair crowded in,
Were the tender place. Once to check
I dropped a file across the electrodes
Of a twelve-volt battery -- it exploded
Like a grenade. Somebody wired you up.
Somebody pushed the lever. They crashed
The thunderbolt into your skull.
In their bleached coats, with blenched faces,
They hovered again
To see how you were, in your straps.
Whether your teeth were still whole.
The hand on the calibrated lever
Again feeling nothing
Except the feeling nothing pushed to feel
Some squirm of sensation. Terror
Was the cloud of you
Waiting for these lightnings. I saw
n oak limb sheared at a bang.
You your Daddy's leg. How many seizures
Did you suffer this God to grab you
By the roots of the hair? The reports
Escaped back into clouds. What went up
Vaporised. Where lightning rods wept copper
And the nerve threw off its skin
Like a burning child
Scampering out of the bomb-flash.
They dropped you
A rigid bent bit of wire
Across the Boston City grid. The lights
In the Senate House dipped
As your voice dived inwards
Right through the bolt-hole basement.
Came up, years later,
Over-exposed, like an X-Ray --
Brain-map still dark-patched
With the scorched-earth scars
Of your retreat. And you words,
Faces reversed from the light,
Holding in their entrails.