"Dark means serious. Dark means shadows. Dark means not evading the sad and inexplicable complexities of life—or even worse. Dark is grownup. I was mulling this when I read a short piece in the November 25 New York Review of Booksabout a previously unpublished confessional poem that Ted Hughes wrote but never finished before his death in 1998. It dwells on whom he was sleeping with, and where, on the weekend when his estranged wife Sylvia Plath committed suicide. Don’t count me among those fascinated by either Plath’s death or Hughes’s infidelities, any more than among those obsessed with whether the Rosenbergs were guilty. Those are special tastes. But Carol Ann Duffy, Britain’s current poet laureate, did get my attention by praising the poem as “the darkest poem that he wrote about the death of Sylvia Plath,” one that “seems to touch a deeper, darker place than poem he’s ever written.” Actually the NYRB article, by Mark Ford, leaves a rather different impression, of a man’s desperate effort to exorcise the memory of squalid, shameful behavior." — Peter Steinfels
“Desolation,Doom,DyspepsiaAnd Despair.I am a bat that wheels through the Air of FateI am a worm that wriggles in a Swamp of DisillusionmentI am a despairing ToadI have got dyspepsia”.