{"id":31205,"date":"2012-05-14T17:00:17","date_gmt":"2012-05-14T21:00:17","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=31205"},"modified":"2013-04-22T02:28:32","modified_gmt":"2013-04-22T06:28:32","slug":"at-the-grave-of-richard-hugo","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2012\/05\/14\/at-the-grave-of-richard-hugo\/","title":{"rendered":"At the Grave of Richard Hugo"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"\"<\/a><\/center><\/p>\n

It is an indisputable fact that the memory of poet Richard Hugo haunts Missoula, Montana. This notion might first strike us as innocuous, obvious, falling within the simple domain of legacy. Thirty years after his death, he leaves equal endowments in Missoula, as the most important \u201cMontana poet\u201d and as a teacher of poetry: he was one of the first directors of the University of Montana\u2019s renowned creative writing program and the author of a classic handbook on creative writing, The Triggering Town<\/em>, that is filled with excellent, weird, and practical advice.<\/p>\n

\nFurther related to the activity of haunting: Hugo\u2019s poems famously concern places. He is known primarily as a regional poet, and many of his most famous poems are named for Montana towns or landmarks, like \u201cDegrees of Gray in Philipsburg,\u201d \u201cThe Milltown Union Bar,\u201d and \u201cThe Lady in Kicking Horse Reservoir.\u201d One can use his book of collected poems, Making Certain It Goes On<\/em>, as a guidebook to Montana\u2019s bleakest and loveliest destinations; titles of his poems will lead you to Garnet ghost town, St. Ignatius, Turtle Lake, Wisdom, and Fort Benton, finally winding back to what was once Hugo\u2019s actual address in Missoula, 2433 Agnes Street. When Hugo wrote a poem about a place, he made the place a part of himself, and now that he\u2019s gone, a part of him remains in those places.<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

\nBut it is not as simple as legacy. Spending time with Hugo\u2019s poems, it is not only the activities of his life that linger\u2014his death lingers. We may note that Making Certain It Goes On<\/em> contains fourteen poems with either the word grave<\/em> or cemetery<\/em> in their titles. Graveyards always seem a point of contemplation for Hugo, being as they are both repositories of loss and attempts at quarantining that loss from the routines of everyday life. It\u2019s a shame we keep the dead this way. But death always resists the control of the living, and graveyards in Hugo\u2019s work evince a tenuously maintained order. \u201cThis graveyard can expand,\u201d Hugo wrote with some irony and some hope in \u201cIndian Graves at Jocko,\u201d \u201ccan crawl \/ in all directions to the mountains.\u201d<\/p>\n

\nGraves exemplify one difficulty of death: that both the pieces of the dead that disappear and those that remain are hard for us. It is all sad, sad. In \u201cGraves At Elkhorn,\u201d Hugo describes how \u201cThe poor ones \/ used wood for markers. Their names \/ got weaker every winter. Now the gray wood \/ offers a blank sacrifice to rot.\u201d What a waste, it seems, for the inhabitants of these graves to labor unremembered for eternity, because records and monuments may vanish, but the dead do not, and neither does the mysterious work of the dying, which is to die. \u201cI don\u2019t want to admit \/ It\u2019s cold alone in the ground,\u201d Hugo says in \u201cWith Ripley at the Grave of Albert Parenteau,\u201d \u201cand a cold run \/ from Canada with a dog and two bottles of rye.\u201d Death is a project each person undertakes alone.<\/p>\n

\nStill, we want to remember, and like the inadequate wooden graves, our stories, photographs, and keepsakes try dumbly to help the dead along. Hugo describes a photograph of himself and a loved one fishing in \u201cThe Other Grave\u201d: \u201cSee my picture. \/ See my mustache then. Any photo fades. \/ You remain in yellow with your catch.\u201d It is hard not to think of the pictures of Hugo that are ubiquitous in Missoula, of him grasping a gigantic fish and cackling or standing stoic, holding a whiskey and a cigarette in the same hand. Living here and seeing him so often, you can feel like you know him. But any photo fades, and these pictures of Hugo are less reminders of him than reminders that no photo can convey what he was really like\u2014in fact we are getting farther away all the time.<\/p>\n

\nSo what I\u2019m saying really is simple\u2014that Hugo\u2019s preoccupation with graves is a powerful and disturbing theme because it prefigured his own death. He left such an impact on poetry and on Montana that it can be hard to remember that he was young when he died, only fifty-nine, of leukemia. Reading the shortness of his life into his work, it rings louder with irony and grief: \u201cI\u2019ll not die of course. My health \/ is perfect,\u201d he wrote in \u201cGraves in Queens,\u201d only seven years before he died. \u201cIf you die first,\u201d he wrote to his wife in \u201cWith Ripley at the Grave of Albert Parenteau,\u201d \u201cI\u2019ll die slow as Big Bear \/ my pale days thin with age, \/ night after night, the stars callow as children.\u201d It is sad, sad. <\/p>\n

\nWe may take solace, though, that in Hugo\u2019s work the dead are not only obscure, they are strong. He relates a theory in \u201cGraves in Uig\u201d that \u201cthey put the dead \/ here where north and east gales can find them \/ knowing in death we are tough, and leave the living \/ on the west side protected from the cold.\u201d It\u2019s something we\u2019ve known all along: it is we, the living, who need the dead, not the dead who need us. Sometimes we just want to visit something tough as a stone in the ground. So here I\u2019ll tell you what to do in Missoula, Montana, if you don\u2019t know what to do, if you are restless, confused, and alone in yourself\u2014or if you are sad.<\/p>\n

\nWalk west across the railroad tracks and through the neighborhood of streets meeting at strange angles, lined with tiny houses backed by giant sheds. You didn\u2019t bother to look up where the marker you\u2019re looking for is, so you wander through the graveyard for a few minutes, looking at the graves from the 1920s, the ones that just read Baby<\/em>, the ones where you can\u2019t make out any name. Then you turn and see a huge elm tree at the center of the cemetery stretching to the sky. You walk to it and find Richard Hugo\u2019s grave at its base, a small headstone flush in the ground and grown over a little bit with grass. You feel in your pockets to see if you have any token to leave there, but they are empty.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a><\/center><\/p>\n

\nHugo\u2019s grave poems display an anxiety about the impossibility of adequately memorializing anyone. \u201cMaybe the best graves stay unmarked,\u201d Hugo wrote in \u201cConfederate Graves in Little Rock.\u201d \u201cThe right words never find themselves cut into stone.\u201d But the same lines from Hugo\u2019s poem \u201cGlen Uig\u201d form the epitaph on Hugo\u2019s grave and the epigraph to Making Certain It Goes On<\/em>, so both book and gravestone act together as his monument: \u201cBelieve you and I sing tiny and wise \/ and could if we had to eat stone and go on.\u201d A granite slab is not an oracle, but this one is telling you to take heart. You stare at Hugo\u2019s words for a while and then you walk home in the sun. You don\u2019t stay at his grave for long.<\/p>\n

Alice Bolin<\/a> is a writer living in Missoula, Montana.<\/em> <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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