Regarding the relationship between Plath and Hughes, it is sufficient to say that Hughes behaved abominably, but no one emerged (or didn't, as in Sylvia's case) blameless. Because i loved Sylvia's poetry so much, I hated Ted for a long time, which was stupid. After giving him a fair reading, i now love him nearly as much as i love her. One thing is certain—no one knows, really knows, what happens in an intimate relationship except the parties involved. That's where we should leave it.

The poetry is what matters, and it was grand. No need to pick over their bones...

Gigolo Poet Laureate II

“I breathed his stench—
my bridegroom in his
rotting shroud”
—Carol Ann Duffy
“Mrs. Lazarus,”
The World’s Wife

How can I—possibly imply
Ted Hughes—of what the
Entire Anglo—American Literary
And critical—Establishment
Has covered up—& denied,
Without saying—it directly:
The murder—of Sylvia Plath.

Unfortunate that so few of the comments above are about the poem itself as a poem. I would like to have seen how Hughes would have honed this, trimmed it. There are some fine things in it: 'A thunderbolt that could not earth itself' stands out as one. And 'What happened that night, inside your hours' and the lines it leads into are better poetry than much of the work in Birthday Letters.

I am coming to this late in the piece; however I do feel compelled to express my sadness and astonishment at the ugliness that pervades many of these comments. Although Hughes and Plath have passed away and cannot read these hurtful words for themselves there are family, friends and other loved ones that would be so hurt by the mean-spiritedness of self-important people. This was a painful and very personal chapter in the life of Ted Hughes and his family. Have some respect. You should be ashamed of yourselves.

@ pugetopolis

Look, if you can't respect someone's opinion, that's your own problem.

@keencloudwatcher If Susan really is Susan Alliston, then why does Ted say that she killed herself too 3 years later? wasn't that Assia? And once before he referred to her as 'My Della Robia'. A quick Google revealed that it was the name of a 15th century Italian sculptor...Help me out here, please!!!What kind of allusions was he making?

No, Ted Hughes was not one of "the best poets ever", Philip Muldoon (1st post). He wasn't even one of the best poets of the latter half of the 20th century. His wife was worse, barely deserving to be called a poet at all.

@Greg Dyke
26 October 2010 at 03:54

There once was a poet from Yorkshire
All the women thought he was cocksure
Eliot had his doubts tho
He had to know blow by blow
Like Vivien he was pure as snow.

@ keencloudwatcher - Thanks for pointing out the error. I suspect you're right about Hughes not wanting to publish this poeml even so, I'm glad that we got to read the poem. It fills in a few blanks.

So Ted Hughes wrote versions of "What did happen that Sunday night", perhaps as a catharsis. Good to learn that the words did not flow easily to paper. Perhaps his conscience impeded the abilty to structure words in to sentences?

Sylvia WAS A TRUE POET SADLY DRAWN INTO THE DARKNESS OF LIFE'S BLUNDERS AS I FULLY AND OBVIOUSLY DIRECT THE BLAME OF HER DEATH TOWARDS TED STILL HER ENDING WAS MOST BEAUTIFUL AND HAUNTING AND FOR THAT IT ALLOWED HER TO EXPRESS HER ABILITIES TO THE FULLEST AND IN DOING SO FLOWED FORTH THE RAGE AND UNWAVERING TALENT FOR THAT I PRAISE YOU,LOVE YOU, AND THANK YOU.................ALL THIS FROM ONE POET TO THE NEXT ...........FOR EVER YOURS DAVID MCDONOUGH

I particularly resented the Channel 4 reporter's statement that Sylvia Plath 'gave in to her depression' and killed herself. You don't 'give in' to depression - it overwhelms you. What an insensitive and ignorant report.
The poem 'Last Letter' gives a glimpse of what Hughes had to live with afterwards, including the suicide of his girlfriend, Assia Wevill, who (unlike Plath) also killed their child. That amount of anguish is almost unsurvivable. I think it is amazing that he was able to cope at all. 'Last Letter' is written in the shadow of that second suicide and the increased accumulation of guilt. Is this the 'double, treble' exposure he writes about?

Another Ted Hughes poem that doesnt admit what a terrible husband and father he was. I like ted hughes poetry as much as anyone, but his evasiveness in the face of his responsibilities really hurts... There is a black hole at the centre of his work that he both created and couldnt cope with. And the way his wife was somehow committed to toying with death for the sake of her art is bound up with why it's impossible for him...

It's exactly Ted Hughes way of telling half a story that's bugging me. The thing thats been haunting me since I read the poem is... what did she write in her last letter? How did she make him cry? Why did she burn it and send him away? Why does he imagine her trying and trying to phone him over that last weekend?

It's the way that he is so certain that she is exactly NOT out of control thats spooky - SHE is the one with a plan; she is the one that leaves him the doctor's number against the ashtray. As though the whole episode was part of a dialogue with him, but dictated by her.

So - what did she write to him... ?

Surely thats the question that the poem wants us to ask.

My Thatcher poet what she gave us, total nectar - a push and pull brilliant result. And Plant, your a puppet, like Clegg.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=We_mND4HpTg

@ Kat D - He didnt publish the poem so there's no need to think, I reckon, that he changed any names. So Susan is Susan Alliston, and Helen is his neighbour in Rugby Street, named Helen, who had an alsatian. It's more like a diary than a poem in some ways, except that the fate of the neighbour and her dog sounds like a displaced way of talking about Plath and her depression.

Look - anytime anything reopens the experience of Plath and Hughes we all get fascinated and it's always a constructive engagement with two really daring and vivid writers. None of it is bad. The problem is that none of it is Dad either...

See that word 'dad' in the heavily crossed out manuscript? What was going on there? Where is this poem... Im not content with Jonathan Pryce hamming it up...

Ugliness? Any ugliness is in the eye of the beholder, I think... what you have here is an unfolding reflection on that poem and on the resources that exist on the web to steer enquiring minds towards the meaning of an event that continues to produce meanings and insights.

And Jesus played with the full 11 (plus 2 subs) didnt he? Making it a cricket team...

Does one write poetry to exonerate oneself? Or, as keencloudwatcher infers,to evade blame? Or, on the other hand, does poetry arise from the raw emotion, the grief, the anger , the guilt. This is what I read in "Birthday Letters" and it speaks to these emotions in me. Tragedy and error are surely part of the human condition and we should not look to archetypal figures like Huges and Plath to shoulder our collective burden of this.

I find it sad that people can judge, un-rightfully so, the lives of people who posses more talent and understanding regarding the human condition, than many others who seem to stumble blindly through their own lives.

Taking a long look in the mirror is hard for anyone, for those with severe suicidal depression, keen intellect coupled with it, and awareness of others, it's exasperating.

That Hughes and Plath had the gift of words, could extend their personal thoughts, reveal them to those who are probably not able to comprehend, is a gift to us.

I always think when I hear a crude word regarding her depression and suicide, that the person stating such crap - is most likely targeting her because she is a woman, or because they do not understand the scope of her talent, use of language, or life.

Philip Larkin on Plath/Hughes

“I see her as a kind
of Hammer Films poet”
—Philip Larkin
Letter to Judy Egerton
10 June 1960