Ted hughes biography reviews for horrible bosses

There were two​ anthologies of modern poetry in our house when I was a teenager and they both offered glimpses of the world outside that were more intense, more useful, than anything on television or on albums or in ordinary books. One was The Penguin Book of Contemporary Verse, edited by Kenneth Allott. It had been published first in 1950, with a second edition in 1962. The other was The New Poetry, also published in 1962. Edited by A. Alvarez, it had a crazy Jackson Pollock painting on the cover. In the Allott anthology I was intrigued by some of the poems that came towards the end, most notably Jon Silkin’s ‘Death of a Son’, whose last line (‘And out of his eyes two great tears rolled, like stones, and he died’) I thought sadder than anything in Joni Mitchell or Leonard Cohen. I was also interested in Thomas Kinsella’s ‘Another September’, because I knew the house just outside Enniscorthy where it was set and I had met the poet’s wife, whose sleeping figure was evoked in the poem. What was most interesting about it, though, was the way it left the familiar behind and moved into a set of images and cadences that I could not fully understand:

It is as though
The black breathing tha

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On October 29th, 1957 Louis B. Mayer died from leukemia, a disease that would claim his nephew, the youngest child of my great-grandmother, Ida Mayer Cummings, only eight years later in 1965.

In my earlier post, To Bury a Son, I wrote about Leonard’s premature passing at just 44 years old. In the process of researching his life and death, I discovered that Ida had not only buried her youngest son but all three of her brothers, including L.B., who for much of her life was the closest to her. I can’t imagine how painful each loss must have been.

With two deaths from leukemia, but a couple of generations removed, I fervently hoped it had been banished back to the Stygian depths where it could never claim another family member. When my youngest son began suffering from massive nose bleeds, I had a deep dread that perhaps he too had this horrible disease. Thankfully, he was soon cleared of anything insidious, the nose bleeds stopped, and that frightening shadow evaporated…

While I never knew my great-uncle – he died more than a decade before I was born – his influence stretched across even to my generation, though naturally, his reach is fading as time rolls on. What has often shocked and confused me, though, is that despite being instrument