At the age of nineteen, I chanced upon book of poems by Richard Hugo while browsing through a bookstore. I don’t know why I picked up the book, but I did.
Hugo’s
poems immediately drew me in. He wrote
about places I knew: Missoula, Wisdom, Milltown, Philipsburg, and Kicking Horse
Reservoir. Drunks and workingmen and
fishermen wandered in and out of his hammering verses.
I purchased
the book and read his poems repeatedly, sometimes aloud, and I found myself
falling in love with contemporary poetry.
Soon enough, I picked up books by other contemporary poets.
Looking
back upon my life, I have invested hours upon hours sitting in sunny spots,
alone, reading poems, sometimes writing my own.
From
the outside, my love for contemporary poetry may appear to have been a bad
investment. Poetry has not filled my
pockets. The poems that reach me often
fail to reach others. To my old drinking
buddies, the purposeful twists of phrase are simply confounding.
But within
me, the proper poem read at the appropriate hour satisfies me in a way nothing
else does.
Cheers,
Richard Hugo!
—Mitchell
Hegman
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