By Richard Hugo
"Richard Hugo is such an enormous poet as the problems inherent in his artwork supply him a method of claiming what he has to assert. it truly is no coincidence that he needs to improve a unfavourable as a way to produce a real image." --Richard Howard
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Additional info for The Lady in Kicking Horse Reservoir: Poems
If i'll dwell like him, my dermis stained gold from this gold circulate, I’d switch my identify. i need to discover a trout or anything shiny yet hidden via refraction, heavier than sin. That’s why this day, my final day the following, whereas he's rinsing blankets within the river, earlier than i'm going that lengthy east to my gold I shout my top see you later around the roar. traveling With pals Cataldo challenge We come the following vacationer on a foul sky day, hot milk at 15,000 and the swamp throughout the highway blinding white. No thought to give an explanation for the shortcoming of saint, torn tapestry. Pews appear equipped for pygmies, and a under the influence of alcohol as soon as damned mosquitoes from the pulpit, raging pink with Bible and imagined plague. Their spirits buoyed, pioneers left working for the not anything sure nowhere west. someplace, say the place Ritzville is, they might keep in mind those crass pillars attractive and a relocating sermon that they had by no means heard. More’s undesirable the following than simply the sky. The valley we got here in on: Mullan. Wallace. Jokes concerning the whores. Kellogg and, with out salvation, Smelterville. A circulation so slate with crap the identify pollutes the realm. guy will die back to do that to his soul. And over the subsequent hill he by no means crosses, supplies: love, grass, a white cathedral, glandular revival and a brand new trout, 3 tall dorsal fins. We go out from the project, blind. The haze nonetheless hangs amplifying glare until eventually centuries of immigrants in tears look traditional as rain. The hex is on. The highway covers arrows, and the swamp a spear with feathers that means cease. This dry faded day, automobiles less than move slowly thirsty, 500 miles to head earlier than the country quits. for Jim and Lois Welch Montgomery hole Birds the following must have names so challenging to claim you identify them over. They eventually chanced on the farmer putting close to the circulation. in simple terms insect hum this day and the red smell of thyme. You’d guess your throat opposed to the way in which a brain is going undesirable. You triumph over loss through going to where it occurred and replaying it, asserting the identify of the face within the open casket correct. humans die in towns. except it’s warfare you by no means see the our bodies. They die in print, over telephones in paramouric residences. the following, you discover them staring down the sunlight, flies crawling them like bacon. other halves scream days working and the soreness is long past. the following, you discover them residing. to understand a street you personal it, each bend and pebble and the weeds alongside it, airborne dirt and dust that itches while the August hayrake rambles domestic. You personal the house. You personal the dying of each chook you identify. To reside stable, hold your existence and the scene. Cow, brook, hay: those are names of cash. for Stanley Kauffmann the tip of Krim’s Pad once they plan a highway via a urban they plan it intentionally through areas you like so much. They take out homes humans lived in years and folks die in face of the terror of loss. We name this development. We sweep their aged bones out of sight lower than the concrete carpet. when you have not anything yet a spot to conceal in, cage cave or country, a determined paradise for the infirm, you lose. you're the one the wreckers search for. Fifteen years of Herman’s a number of herds, Cutty Sark and black whores curling in your flooring won't galvanize them.
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