"I was the gnat in the ear of the wounded Elephant of my own Incomprehension."
I would love to share with you some intelligent musings on reflection of this book of poetry. That being said, I had a rather busy weekend and am struggling to engage the cogs of the brain. Warm summer days where the sun shines, the bird sings and the world seems like a gorgeous place to live in are ill suited to the discussion of poetry.
I wanted to read this because I had never previously read anything by Ted Hughes, although I'd studied the poetry of Sylvia Plath - really something not suited to a sunny day.
I had read the usual stuff about him being a bit of a lousy husband and jealous of her success and a contributing factor in her self destruction, so naturally I was a little curious.
I don't know why, but I got the distinct impression that here was a man that would chronicle your life in a dispassionate fashion. The overwhelming feeling that the majority of works within the collection brought out was a sense that I would really not want to be part of his world.
3 out of 5, well formed but threatening to kill my good mood.