I'm reading Ted Hughes' The Birthday Letters at the mo. I bought it in a charity shop in Knaresborough in the summer, and its been sat on my shelf of DVDs and books what seemed exciting to buy, but quickly became obvious were too challenging to just dip into whenever I felt like.
I've never really enjoyed poetry before, partly due to terrible English Literature A-level classes where I didn't know what the hell we were supposed to write about the poetry of UA Fanthorpe, whilst everyone else riffed on the use of similies, the use of iambic pentameter and how all the letters at the start of each line spelt out the name of the 13th Poet Laureate.
I remember reading Bill Drummond saying he read The Birthday Letters whilst on a train, and after he read each page, in his own wanky way, he tore it out and made a paper aeroplane out of it, and then threw it out of the window. I fancied a bit of that, and when I read about Ted Hughes' newly discovered poem at the weekend I decided now was the time to get some poetry action.
I'm loving it, its basically picture postcards from his relationship with Sylvia Plath, the emotion in it is so brutal and naked, the way he views everything they went through, the excitement of young dangerous love, reflected through Plath's eventual suicide, the recurring themes of wolves and other things I can't remember, its amazing.
Its even improved by me listening to Popol Vuh's soundtrack to Aguirre whilst I read it. I think the two will always be intertwined in my head from now on.
