Swan Song
[In Memoriam: E. J. (Ted) Hughes]
(Poet Laureate: 1984-98)
i.
The suddenness of his departure caught
Some unawares, though he had clearly guessed
The time of his migration far ahead
Since, in his final months amongst us, he
Published those private poems which comprise
The finest verses that he ever wrote:
His version of that passioned tragedy
Which haunted his career so balefully.
(Your death, strange Sylvia, confused his heart
And rendered him almost incompetent,
Quasi-banal, near inarticulate;
A poet muffled, baffled by his hurt).
Till he, with his last strength – like some proud, fabled swan –
Sang his own Requiem in measures rich, rare, strong.
ii.
Each verse of every poem should present
Some aspect of its author’s character
Or capability, (transforming thoughts
To sapid, shapely sentences), to sum
Uniquely its composer’s secret self;
As feathers, beak and other attributes –
Each one distinctively particular –
Define the essence of some bird; a hawk,
Eagle or nightingale, raven or swan.
On wide, imaginative wings bright flocks
Of poetry transcend mundanity
In their majestic, awe-inspiring flights
As, voicing enchanting phrases, they soar beyond
Low commonplaces in eternity’s profond.
iii.
His Birthday Letters launched him to new heights
Above that mire of mediocrity
Where he had wallowed publicly so long,
And with their anthems redolent of love
Triumphant, justified and true – circling
His past, his critics’ sneers, his reticence –
Bore him on wings of cadenced power to fame’s
High reputation; then transported him
Far from this place to that unknown resort
(From which no migrant can return, but where
Are only silent peace and calm repose);
Where no concern disturbs nor hindsight blights.
Now, as his form recedes from life’s creative glow,
He fades from sight, though we still hear his songs below.
