I don’t like the popular, simple, day–to–day poetry. So much such is talking about the weather to a stranger, banal mouthings trying to sound interesting.
Hutchinson writes very simple poetry. But his works. Consider ‘Snow Flake’:
The wonder of a snow flake,
a tiny six–beamed star
of water in the cold time
from the air.
It was a forever moment
with my children
on the back door step.
I was catching snow flakes
in my black hat
and we watched them melt.
Some of his poems that work for me, they work so well, I wonder why I find no resonance in the others.
He does not move the art forward, he produces quality mainstream. If Hutchinson’s work was published and promoted by the mainstream, and if he became successful, he might flush many capable poets out of their stylistic laziness to new ways of saying things, simply because they couldn’t match his Sartie–esque language.
Hutchinson originally comes from Northern Ireland, and retains his Ulster Protestant vowels. You need to hear his slurred accent when you read the title poem, ‘On The Border’:
I’m on the border here.
I know my lifestyle will kill me
but I can give myself a chance.
There are crazy snipers around.
Sometimes you just don’t know
where the next bullet will come from.
I’m sick of living in fear
like an animal.
I just want peace in my own territory.
On The Border