Someone asked me to post a few of my favorite poems — those that move me, curl my toes, quicken my pulse, bring about a wry smile…allow me to see god.

This poem, for example, simply takes the top of my fucking head off.

But, perhaps that’s what Ted intended when he wrote it — as there seemed to be no sophistry in his body, either. Only unequaled poetic authority, aching grace…and PURE GODDAMNED YORKSHIRE GENIUS.

I shall miss you, Ted — and all the poems that will remain unwritten.

Hawk Roosting

I sit in the top of the wood, my eyes closed.
Inaction, no falsifying dream
Between my hooked head and hooked feet:
Or in sleep rehearse perfect kills and eat.

The convenience of the high trees!
The air’s buoyancy and the sun’s ray
Are of advantage to me;
And the earth’s face upward for my inspection.

My feet are locked upon the rough bark.
It took the whole of Creation
To produce my foot, my each feather:
Now I hold Creation in my foot

Or fly up, and revolve it all slowly –
I kill where I please because it is all mine.
There is no sophistry in my body:
My manners are tearing off heads –

The allotment of death.
For the one path of my flight is direct
Through the bones of the living.
No arguments assert my right:

The sun is behind me.
Nothing has changed since I began.
My eye has permitted no change.
I am going to keep things like this.

— Ted Hughes, 1930-1998