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Hugo Williams Poems
I wonder will I speak to the girl sitting opposite me on this train. I wonder will my mouth open and say, 'Are you going all the way
I phone from time to time, to see if she’s Changed the music on her answerphone. 'Tell me in two words,' goes the recording, 'what you were going to tell in a thousand.'
The evening advances, then withdraws again Leaving our cups and books like islands on the floor. We are drifting, you and I, As far from another as the young heroes
You paused for a moment and I heard you smoking on the other end of the line. I pictured your expression, one eye screwed shut against the smoke
How do you think I feel when you make me talk to you and won't let me stop till the words turn into a moan?
Everyone who made love the night before was walking around with flashing red lights on top of their heads-a white-haired old gentlemen, a red-faced schoolboy, a pregnant woman
When I'm lying awake, listening to rain hammering on the roof, the phrase comes back to me, our code for 'Let's get out of here'.
Whether it was putting in an extra beat, or leaving one out, I couldn't tell. My heart seemed to have forgotten everything it ever knew
1 Are you still Chinese yellow? Are your blinds still drawn
Along These Lines
And so you cry for her, and the poem falls to the page As if it knew all along that what we make of ourselves we take From one another's hearts - tearing and shouting until we learn How awkwardly, upstairs and behind shut doors we are born
They must be checking our location on the map, taking leave of their loved ones, asking the way to our house.
During An Absence
Now that she has left the room for a moment to powder her nose, we watch and wait, watch and wait, for her to bring back the purpose into our lives.
The smell of ammonia in the entrance hall. The racing bike. The junk mail. The timer switch whose single naked bulb allowed us as far as the first floor.
Comments about Hugo Williams
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
I wonder will I speak to the girl
sitting opposite me on this train.
I wonder will my mouth open and say,
'Are you going all the way
to Newcastle?' or 'Can I get you a coffee?'
Or will it simply go 'aaaaah'
as if it had a mind of its own?
Half closing eggshell blue eyes,
she runs her hand through her hair
so that it clings to the carriage cloth,
then slowly frees itself.
She finds a brush and her long fair hair
flies back and forth like an African fly-whisk,
making me feel dizzy.
Suddenly, without warning,
she packs it all away in a rubber ...