Hugo Williams (1942-)
I have admired William’s poetry since I discovered that the author of “No Particular Place to Go'“ wrote poems. My copy of that strange excursion into America has 1983 written inside the cover as its date of purchase. This poem is taken from his most recent collection, ‘Lines Off’ (Faber 2019).
Most discussions of Williams’ poetry will sooner or later discuss the art of artlessness. In a world of pyrotechnics and syntaxtic acrobatics, written by earnest survivors of unimaginable horrors, domestic or national, on a first reading, the Williams poem can seem little more than rhythmically organised speech. The fact the speaker is so often unimpressed with itself can encourage the illusion. How nice you think, and pass on in search of something more substantial.
And that’s your mistake.
A simple test of excellence is to watch what happens when you reread the poem. As with this one, so much more is happening than appears on that first, swift reading.