Richard Hugo (December 21, 1923 - October 22, 1982), born Richard Hogan, was an American poet. Primarily a regionalist, Hugo's work reflects the economic depression of the Northwest, particularly Montana. Born in White Center, Washington, he was raised by his mother's parents after his father left the family. In 1942 he legally changed his name to Richard Hugo, taking his stepfather's surname. He served in World War II as a bombardier in the Mediterranean. He left the service in 1945 after flying 35 combat missions and reaching the rank of first lieutenant.
Hugo received his B.A. in 1948 and his M.A. in 1952 in Creative Writing from the University of Washington where he studied under Theodore Roethke.[1] He married Barbara Williams in 1952, the same year he started working as a technical writer for Boeing.
In 1961 his first book of poems, A Run of Jacks, was published. Soon after he took a creative writing teaching job at the University of Montana. He later became the head of the creative writing program there.[2] His wife returned to Seattle in 1964, and they divorced soon after. He published five more books of poetry, a memoir, a highly respected book on writing, and also a mystery novel. His posthumous book of collected poetry, Making Certain It Goes On, evinces that his poems are marked by crisp, gorgeous images of nature that often stand in contrast to his own depression, loneliness, and alcoholism. Although almost always written in free verse, his poems have a strong sense of rhythm that often echoes iambic meters. He also wrote of large number of informal epistolary poems at a time when that form was unfashionable.
Hugo was a friend of poet James Wright.
Hugo’s The Real West Marginal Way is a collection of essays, generally autobiographical in nature, that detail his childhood, his military service, his poetics, and his teaching.
Hugo remarried in 1974 to Ripley Schemm Hansen. In 1977 he was named the editor of the Yale Younger Poets Series.
I'm embarking on a journey through Hugo's collected poems (Making Certain It Goes on); I'll review each of the volumes (as I did a while back with Adrienne Rich).
Not surprisingly, A Run of Jacks--the title refers to a type of salmon found in Hugo's native Northwest--shows the poet's signature concerns beginning to take shape. Hugo savors sound, which he understood as an entry to "meaning"--a concept he distrusted. A fair number of the poems are opaque, presenting images that require leaps of imagination to connect with the external world. But others anticipate the way in which Hugo will connect those lyric explorations more directly with his speakers' states of mind. From "Duwamish":
On the short days, looking for a word, knowing the smoke from the small homes turns me colder than wind from the cold river, knowing this poverty is not a lack of money, but of friends, I come here to be cold. Not silver cold like ice, for ice has glitter. Gray cold like the river. Cold like 4 P.M. on Sunday. Cold like a decaying porgy.
Hugo's one of the most penetrating poets of the West and most of the best poems in A Run of Jacks summon the small towns and lonely settings that will recur throughout his work. If you want to dip into the early work, "Back of Gino's Place," "A Map of the Peninusla," "Kapowsin" and "Duwamish" suggest the work to come.
This is one of the best first collections I've ever read.
These poems, especially the later ones, are imbued with subtle music that accumulates as you read.
Richard Hugo was much more than a Pacific Northwestern nature poet, and 'A Run of Jacks' proves it. These poems cover a variety of subjects: nature is here, of course, but also religion, politics, art, artists, and more.
(I'm not a fan of political poetry. However, I read real poetry, so political subject matter is inescapable. As with every other theme in his poetry, Richard Hugo's use of politics was artistic, skillful and tasteful.)
His nature poems are beautiful and timeless. Reading them, you get the impression that he loved the natural world, and spent a significant amount of time in it.
He was truly a master. We lost an important poet (and teacher) when he passed, too young, at 58.
This was hard for me to get through, mind you it’s only about 70 pages. There were glimmers of engaging writing dispersed throughout, with several poems about fish that reminded me of being in a Bass Pro shop or sitting in a boat fly fishing. This is an older book, and may be hard to get published if it were to get approved for publishing today with how he referred to Indians/ Native Americans as savages, and other references not accepted today. I know this is someone’s cup of tea, there was were some interesting nature poems, but it wasn’t mine.