The accusation that Williamson's meters sometimes feel random overlooks the way his formal experimentation mirrors the thematic complexity of his poems. The (less than occasional) irregularity in his metrical patterns serves not as a flaw, but as a conscious artistic choice that captures the organic, sometimes chaotic nature of language and thought.
The use of heroic couplets, terza rima, and even intricate internal rhyme patterns showcases a poet testing the bounds of traditional forms, much like a painter experimenting with color and texture. To critique this as randomness is to mistake artistic boldness for lack of control. While it is true that some of the lines in The Silent Partner might feel constrained by their formal structure, this is an inherent challenge of metrical poetry and one that Williamson generally handles with remarkable skill. The moments where form appears to strain under the weight of language are, arguably, moments of productive tension. They draw the reader's attention to the interplay between form and meaning, encouraging a more active engagement with the text.
As a debut collection, The Silent Partner should be celebrated for its ambition and achievements rather than overly scrutinized for occasional imperfections. Critics who compare it to Williamson’s later works, such as Errors in the Script, risk holding it to an unfair standard. While his later poetry may exhibit greater technical polish, the foundation of his talent—his wit, intelligence, and formal daring—is abundantly clear in this volume.