Wodwo
What am I? Nosing here, turning leaves over
Following a faint stain on the air to the river's edge
I enter water. Who am I to split
The glassy grain of water looking upward I see the bed
Of the river above me upside down very clear
What am I doing here in mid-air? Why do I find
this frog so interesting as I inspect its most secret
interior and make it my own? Do these weeds
know me and name me to each other have they
seen me before do I fit in their world? I seem
separate from the ground and not rooted but dropped
out of nothing casually I've no threads
fastening me to anything I can go anywhere
I seem to have been given the freedom
of this place what am I then? And picking
bits of bark off this rotten stump gives me
no pleasure and it's no use so why do I do it
me and doing that have coincided very queerly
But what shall I be called am I the first
have I an owner what shape am I what
shape am I am I huge if I go
to the end on this way past these trees and past these trees
till I get tired that's touching one wall of me
for the moment if I sit still how everything
stops to watch me I suppose I am the exact centre
but there's all this what is it roots
roots roots roots and here's the water
again very queer but I'll go on looking
Commentary
Favourite poems are an odd thing. They’re not necessarily the best in the world and almost certainly not the worst. They just creep up and stick there. I can’t really say why Wodwo is my favourite poem but since I first read it (sitting in Hamilton Library, drying off from the rain, staying in the Main Section rather than going to study upstairs in the Reference Section) it has stuck with me.
At first it confused me. “What’s Wodwo? Is it a thing? What kind of creature is it? Is this a poem about Hughes in the forest? Is it an animal in the forest?” It’s a poem of confusion. But with that confusion there was also an exhilaration at the language, the lack of punctuation, at questions like “What am I doing here in mid-air? Why do I find this frog so interesting as I inspect its most secret / interior and make it my own? Do these weeds know me … do I fit in their world?” The sheer breathlessnesss of it all hit me most.
The poem is one big long question, summed up in the first three words. To the little lost student I was at the time it came to to be the most important thing in the world. And of course it wasn’t then and it isn’t now. It’s not Hughes’ best poem, and it’s not his worst. But it is my favourite.
Oh, and what is a wodwo? I wrote an article about this poem some time ago and you can get the answer there if you want:
http://www.bbc.co.uk/dna/h2g2/brunel/A1012492
Well, co-wrote. My knowledge of Middle English is slightly lacking!
— David
Ted Hughes on the Minstrels:
Poem #42, Hawk Roosting
Poem #98, The Thought Fox
Poem #417, Thistles
Poem #671, Lineage
Poem #723, Full Moon and Little Frieda
Poem #768, Theology
Poem #882, Wind
Poem #1306, A Cranefly in September
Poem #1550, Wodwo