
Ted Hughes
Swastika Night
“A man in black with
a Mien Kampf look”
—Sylvia Plath, Daddy
Poetry—isn’t possible
After Auschwitz—they say
But poets—write anyway
Poetry—doesn’t exist
After the Holocaust—they say
Yet holocausts—continue
The ovens—burn constantly
How innovative—we don’t
Need faggots—to burn anymore
Words—don’t exist
Except when—burning
Trash—into ash
Smoke stacks—suck up
Bodies—spewing killer skies
Over—the planet
No poetry—is possible
After Auschwitz—they say
Everything—just dies
How can we—even write
One lousy line—the same
With Sylvia—or Ariel
What’s wrong—with Ted?
Was he—a closet Nazi?
Clicking his—leather boots?
Poets—live in darkness
But what’s new—my dear?
Always—the Swastika Night.
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