Thursday Short Poem: Williams’ “Her News”

I’ve been putting up Thursday Short Poems for nigh on three years now, and though I tend to prefer contemporary poets, I haven’t had anything up by Hugo Williams.  This is odd, if only because those of us graced with this finest of first names (particularly outside the Spanish-speaking world) are few and far between.  As a matter of solidarity, I put up one of the better known of his poems — and my favorite.  The theme reminds me of a time in my life when I did have moments akin to what Williams describes here, back when I was a somewhat different Hugo.

Her News

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
as you waited for my reaction.
I was waiting for it myself, a list of my own news
gone suddenly cold in my hand.
Supposing my wife found out, what would happen then?
Would I have to leave her and marry you now?
Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad,
starting again with someone new, finding a new place,
pretending the best was yet to come.
It might even be fun,
playing the family man, walking around in the park
full of righteous indignation.
But no, I couldn’t go through all that again,
not without my own wife being there,
not without her getting cross about everything.

Perhaps she wouldn’t mind about the baby,
then we could buy a house in the country
and all move in together.
That sounded like a better idea.
Now that I’d been caught at last, a wave of relief
swept over me. I was just considering
a shed in the garden with a radio and a day bed,
when I remembered I hadn’t seen you for over a year.
"Congratulations," I said. "When’s it due?"

I spent about fifteen years of my life "getting caught at last" and having successive waves of relief sweep over me.  How nice not to have those moments anymore — and yet, every once in a great while, I miss the drama…