Poetry Day - Emily Bronte
Well, the new version of Wuthering Heights is screening, and so even though I didn't watch it last week, I thought I give you a poem on Emily Bronte, by Ted Hughes (hope you've all noticed a few more modern poets about here lately, even though often they don't exhibit the skill of poets long dead, in my humble opinion). The truth is, little me doesn't actually think this is a great poem. If I wrote a poem containing the line "but his kiss was fatal" I think I'd screw it up. But there is actually something comforting in reading a poem by a famous poet, and finding it not that great. It gives me hope. So here you have it.

Emily Bronte
The wind on Crow Hill was her darling.
His fierce, high tide in her ear was her secret.
But his kiss was fatal.
Through her dark Paradise ran
The stream she loved too well
That bit her breast.
The shaggy sodden king of that kingdom
Followed through the wall
And lay on her love-sick bed.
The curlew trod her womb.
The stone swelled under her heart.
Her death is a baby-cry on the moor.
Ted Hughes