I'll get you some poem, maybe later. Meanwhile here's an excerpt from Hughes' interview in THE PARIS REVIEW. 



What do you think of the label “confessional poetry” and the tendency for more and more poets to work in that mode?


Goethe called his work one big confession, didn’t he? Looking at his work in the broadest sense, you could say the same of Shakespeare: a total self-examination and self-accusation, a total confession—very naked, I think, when you look into it. Maybe it’s the same with any writing that has real poetic life. Maybe all poetry, insofar as it moves us and connects with us, is a revealing of something that the writer doesn’t actually want to say but desperately needs to communicate, to be delivered of. Perhaps it’s the need to keep it hidden that makes it poetic—makes it poetry. The writer daren’t actually put it into words, so it leaks out obliquely, smuggled through analogies. We think we’re writing something to amuse, but we’re actually saying something we desperately need to share. The real mystery is this strange need. Why can’t we just hide it and shut up? Why do we have to blab? Why do human beings need to confess? Maybe if you don’t have that secret confession, you don’t have a poem—don’t even have a story. Don’t have a writer. If most poetry doesn’t seem to be in any sense confessional, it’s because the strategy of concealment, of obliquity, can be so compulsive that it’s almost entirely successful. The smuggling analogy is loaded with interesting cargo that seems to be there for its own sake—subject matter of general interest—but at the bottom of Paradise Lost and Samson Agonistes, for instance, Milton tells us what nearly got him executed. The novelty of some of Robert Lowell’s most affecting pieces in Life Studies, some of Anne Sexton’s poems, and some of Sylvia’s was the way they tried to throw off that luggage, the deliberate way they stripped off the veiling analogies. Sylvia went furthest in the sense that her secret was most dangerous to her. She desperately needed to reveal it. You can’t overestimate her compulsion to write like that. She had to write those things—even against her most vital interests. She died before she knew what The Bell Jar and the Ariel poems were going to do to her life, but she had to get them out. She had to tell everybody . . . like those Native American groups who periodically told everything that was wrong and painful in their lives in the presence of the whole tribe. It was no good doing it in secret; it had to be done in front of everybody else. Maybe that’s why poets go to such lengths to get their poems published. It’s no good whispering them to a priest or a confessional. And it’s not for fame, because they go on doing it after they’ve learned what fame amounts to. No, until the revelation’s actually published, the poet feels no release. In all that, Sylvia was an extreme case, I think.




On Saturday, April 30, 2016, [log in to unmask] <[log in to unmask]> wrote:
My usual question:  can anyone direct us to a poem or stanza by Hughes worth remembering or rereading?  We seem to have a lot of biographical data but not that much poetry.

Sent from my iPhone

On Apr 30, 2016, at 4:51 PM, David Boyd <[log in to unmask]');" target="_blank">[log in to unmask]> wrote:

Very sure I've mentioned this before, but will again: Ted Hughes' mother was a direct descendant of Nicholas Ferrar, he of Little Gidding and presumably after whom TH's late son  who also took his own life (R very much IP) was named

Grown-up Frieda H of course recently fell out bigtime with Sir Jonathan Bate over that biography. 

Dr Ann Skea in Australia keeps matters Ted Hughes on fast academic boil -

On 30 April 2016 at 17:41, Chanan Mittal <[log in to unmask]');" target="_blank">[log in to unmask]> wrote:
“I hold a beast, an angel, and a madman in me, and my enquiry is as to their working, and my problem is their subjugation and victory, down throw and upheaval, and my effort is their self-expression.” ― Dylan Thomas 

On Saturday, April 30, 2016, Ken Armstrong <[log in to unmask]');" target="_blank">[log in to unmask]> wrote:
Can you post it, CR?

On 4/30/2016 11:38 AM, Chanan Mittal wrote:
at random 

A quote from Dylan Thomas which resonates rather acutely vis-a-vis Eliot


On Saturday, April 30, 2016, Chanan Mittal <[log in to unmask]> wrote:
Another link