Ted Hughes-en irudia berreskuratuz

Ez dut esan nahi Sylvia Plath-en zorigaizto osoa bere senarraren errua zenik. Txikitatik zen neurotiko hutsa, hogei urterekin saiatu zuen lehenengo aldiz bere buruaz beste egiten, senarra ezagutu baino lehen.

Hughes-ek ziurrenik maite izan zuen, baina bere emaztearen jelosiak suspergarri moduan funtzionatu zuen bere adulterozaletasunarengan. Batzuetan gertatzen da, gure beldurrak gauzatu egiten dira gure indar osoz horiek sahiestu edo horiei atentzio gehiegi ematen badiegu. Autoburutzen den profezia edo horrelako zerbait.

Hughes-en poema bat erreskatatu dut, nire gogokoena. Cambridge-eko garaiak ditu gogoan, non, Fulbright bekadunen argazki bat ikusi eta aztertu zuen. Ez zekien noski, aurpegi irribarretsu horien artean Sylvia Plath zegoela.

Itzultzeko gogorik ez, baina ziur ulertzeko kapazak zareten.

Fulbright Scholars

Where was it, in the Strand? A display
Of news items, in photographs.
For some reason I noticed it.
A picture of that year's intake
Of Fulbright Scholars. Just arriving -
Or arrived. Or some of them.
Were you among them? I studied it.
Not too minutely, wondering
Which of them I might meet.
I remember that thought. Not
Your face. No doubt I scanned particularly
The girls. Maybe I noticed you.
Maybe I weighed you up, feeling unlikely.
Noted your long hair, loose waves -
Your Veronica Lake bang. Not what it hid.
It would appear blond. And your grin.
Your exaggerated American
Grin for the cameras, the judges, the strangers, the frighteners.
Then I forgot. Yet I remember
The picture : the Fulbright Scholars.
With their luggage? It seems unlikely.
Could they have come as a team? That's as I remember.
From a stall near Charing Cross Station.
It was the first fresh peach I had ever tasted.
I could hardly believe how delicious.
At twenty-five I was dumbfounded afresh
By my ignorance of the simplest things.