“I was sitting on a train on the Northern Line some years ago, when I looked up and saw my name where usually there were adverts: Full Moon and Little Frieda. The poem had been selected as one of the Poems on the Underground. I looked away in disbelief; it must be some other Frieda. But when I looked again it was the poem my father had written about me when I was a child. My face was scarlet with self-consciousness; I had to remind myself that there were no gigantic arrows pointing down at me saying “this is the Frieda the poem is about”.
I wanted to share the moment with someone; I turned to the man sitting beside me and wondered how he would react if I grabbed him by the arm, shook him into consciousness and pointed, saying: “Look, look what my daddy wrote for me!”
Instead, I wrapped the idea of the poem around me like a coat, keeping my secret.”
Read The Times article by Frieda Hughes here.