Ted Hughes

Ted Hughes, Poet Laureate, is regarded as one of the most important poets of the 20th century but, for me, he is known only as the author of The Chief Inspector of Holes.  This was one of the best-loved poems from my days at Chakola, often quoted during evening poetry-sharing sessions.


Some fathers work at the office, others work at the store,
Some operate great cranes and build skyscrapers galore,
Some work in canning factories counting green peas into cans,
Some drive all night in huge and thundering removal vans.

But mine has the strangest job of the lot,
My father's the Chief Inspector of - What?
O don't tell the mice, don't tell the moles,
My father's the Chief Inspector of HOLES.

It's a work of the highest importance because you never know
What's in a hole, what fearful thing is creeping from below.
Perhaps it's a hole to the ocean and will soon gush water in tons,
Or maybe it leads to a vast cave full of gold and skeletons.

Though a hole might seem to have nothing but dirt in
Somebody's simply got to make certain.
Caves in the mountain, clefts in the wall
My father has to inspect them all.

That crack in the road looks harmless.  My father knows it's not.
The world may be breaking in two and starting at that very spot.
Or maybe the world is a great egg, and we live on the shell
And it's just beginning to split and hatch: you simply cannot tell.

If you see a crack, run to the 'phone, run!
My father will know just what's to be done.
A rumbling hole, a silent hole,
My father will soon have it under control.



Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Jessie Pope

 I was browsing a selection of War Poems and each was more distressing than the one before.  Then I found WAR GIRLS by Jessie Pope who found a glimmer of positivity in the way that women rose to the occasion and filled the roles, left vacant by the men going off to war. There's the girl who clips your ticket for the train,   And the girl who speeds the lift from floor to floor, There's the girl who does a milk-round in the rain,   And the girl who calls for orders at your door.       Strong, sensible, and fit,       They're out to show their grit,     And tackle jobs with energy and knack.       No longer caged and penned up,       They're going to keep their end up     Till the khaki soldier boys come marching back. There's the motor girl who drives a heavy van,   There's the butcher girl ...
Read more

John O'Brien

Monsignor Patrick Joseph Hartigan was the real name of the poet known as John O'Brien whose first collection of poems was published under the title 'Around the Boree Log'. Monsignor Hartigan was, of course, a Catholic priest. His best-known poem is this one: SAID HANRAHAN "We'll all be rooned," said Hanrahan, In accents most forlorn, Outside the church, ere Mass began, One frosty Sunday morn. The congregation stood about, Coat-collars to the ears, And talked of stock, and crops, and drought, As it had done for years. "It's lookin' crook," said Daniel Croke; "Bedad, it's cruke, me lad, For never since the banks went broke Has seasons been so bad." "It's dry, all right," said young O'Neil, With which astute remark He squatted down upon his heel And chewed a piece of bark. And so around the chorus ran "It's keepin' dry, no doubt." "We'll all be rooned," said Hanrahan, "Before t...
Read more

Kitty Madison

Our house in West Hobart had a flat underneath and, when we bought the house, the flat was occupied by an American woman called Kitty Madison.  She was a very interesting lady, apparently unemployed and she spent her time writing poetry. Marilyn's father spent a few months with us to help us put the garden in order and he and Kitty used to enjoy morning tea together on the back deck swapping stories. Bill, of course, came from a literary family, both his parents being published authors. This poem was written at Christmas 1985 to remember the loss of our cat, Angelique. ANGELIQUE Penetrating, blue-eyed seer of mysteries carried through genetic memory. Adventurer, climber of rooftops and tearing holly branches, hunter crouched for the kill misled by a swaying leaf. Companion, foot warmer, sweet little chatterer, held close, now in remembrance. Amidst the fragrance of mint and cress you are taking your long nap curled up in God's enfolding lap.
Read more