Conduct a Web search for Richard Hugo on any engine and you get hurricanes and Les Miserable. Except for a few brief references in essays, very little of him can be learned from the Internet. My interest in Richard Hugo first sparked briefly when I found a scroungy, water damaged paperback anthology called "The New Naked Poetry" (I was curious about the title, of course) in the incredible, dusty piles of books that were the old Shorey's Books in Seattle. (Now it's all cleaned up, complete with piano and espresso bar.)

As a Seattle native, I was happy to see that his bio said he was from there originally (more specifically, White Center). I couldn't think of any poet from Seattle that I'd seen in a real book before. His contribution to the anthology was a small series of personable "letters." His picture put me off a little. It looked kind of thuggish and slow but likable; definitely NOT poet-like.

Sixteen years later in Illinois, I went to the library to find a recommended book of writing instruction called "The Triggering Town." I recognized Hugo's picture on the back cover immediately. I also found his autobiography "The Real West Marginal Way," and grabbed it first, eager as always for anything mentioning Seattle. I read it in the musty basement of the library, laughing (and crying) out loud.

Like many poetic hopefuls, I have searched for some writer to identify with--some encouraging "like mind"--but most of all I looked for an American poet. The most elegant, perfectly put words I loved first were of Edna St. Vincent Millay and Sylvia Plath, both of whom died prematurely (self-inflicted or otherwise), as did Emily Dickinson. How could a novice female writer not conclude that poetry kills women, or perhaps writing poetry kills, or else you must be suicidally despairing to capture truth in words so well? I could not be that kind of poet.

Although I do not even attempt to put my poetry on the same shelf as Richard Hugo's, I do know that I share his love of the natural world and a fascination with places as much as people. Hugo's poetry is lean and honest, and his voice is unmistakable. What I have been able to piece together of Hugo from all of his writing is the clear but forgiving vision of a hopeful realist.

Joan Daugherty, September 1996

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