Goodreads helps you follow your favorite authors. Be the first to learn about new releases!
Start by following Bob Hicok.
Showing 1-30 of 30
“Here, when I say I never want to be without you,
somewhere else I am saying
I never want to be without you again. And when I touch you
in each of the places we meet,
in all of the lives we are, it's with hands that are dying
and resurrected.
When I don't touch you it's a mistake in any life,
in each place and forever”
―
somewhere else I am saying
I never want to be without you again. And when I touch you
in each of the places we meet,
in all of the lives we are, it's with hands that are dying
and resurrected.
When I don't touch you it's a mistake in any life,
in each place and forever”
―
“Other Lives And Dimensions And Finally A Love Poem
My left hand will live longer than my right. The rivers
of my palms tell me so.
Never argue with rivers. Never expect your lives to finish
at the same time. I think
praying, I think clapping is how hands mourn. I think
staying up and waiting
for paintings to sigh is science. In another dimension this
is exactly what's happening,
it's what they write grants about: the chromodynamics
of mournful Whistlers,
the audible sorrow and beta decay of Old Battersea Bridge.
I like the idea of different
theres and elsewheres, an Idaho known for bluegrass,
a Bronx where people talk
like violets smell. Perhaps I am somewhere patient, somehow
kind, perhaps in the nook
of a cousin universe I've never defiled or betrayed
anyone. Here I have
two hands and they are vanishing, the hollow of your back
to rest my cheek against,
your voice and little else but my assiduous fear to cherish.
My hands are webbed
like the wind-torn work of a spider, like they squeezed
something in the womb
but couldn't hang on. One of those other worlds
or a life I felt
passing through mine, or the ocean inside my mother's belly
she had to scream out.
Here, when I say I never want to be without you,
somewhere else I am saying
I never want to be without you again. And when I touch you
in each of the places we meet,
in all of the lives we are, it's with hands that are dying
and resurrected.
When I don't touch you it's a mistake in any life,
in each place and forever.”
―
My left hand will live longer than my right. The rivers
of my palms tell me so.
Never argue with rivers. Never expect your lives to finish
at the same time. I think
praying, I think clapping is how hands mourn. I think
staying up and waiting
for paintings to sigh is science. In another dimension this
is exactly what's happening,
it's what they write grants about: the chromodynamics
of mournful Whistlers,
the audible sorrow and beta decay of Old Battersea Bridge.
I like the idea of different
theres and elsewheres, an Idaho known for bluegrass,
a Bronx where people talk
like violets smell. Perhaps I am somewhere patient, somehow
kind, perhaps in the nook
of a cousin universe I've never defiled or betrayed
anyone. Here I have
two hands and they are vanishing, the hollow of your back
to rest my cheek against,
your voice and little else but my assiduous fear to cherish.
My hands are webbed
like the wind-torn work of a spider, like they squeezed
something in the womb
but couldn't hang on. One of those other worlds
or a life I felt
passing through mine, or the ocean inside my mother's belly
she had to scream out.
Here, when I say I never want to be without you,
somewhere else I am saying
I never want to be without you again. And when I touch you
in each of the places we meet,
in all of the lives we are, it's with hands that are dying
and resurrected.
When I don't touch you it's a mistake in any life,
in each place and forever.”
―
“I love how intimate I've become with failure.”
―
―
“Making it in poetry
The young teller
at the credit union
asked why so many
small checks
from universities?
Because I write
poems I said. Why
haven't I heard
of you? Because
I write poems
I said.”
―
The young teller
at the credit union
asked why so many
small checks
from universities?
Because I write
poems I said. Why
haven't I heard
of you? Because
I write poems
I said.”
―
“I like the idea of different
theres and elsewheres, an Idaho known for bluegrass,
a Bronx where people talk
like violets smell. Perhaps I am somewhere patient, somehow
kind, perhaps in the nook
of a cousin universe I've never defiled or betrayed
anyone.”
―
theres and elsewheres, an Idaho known for bluegrass,
a Bronx where people talk
like violets smell. Perhaps I am somewhere patient, somehow
kind, perhaps in the nook
of a cousin universe I've never defiled or betrayed
anyone.”
―
“i can't prove this but i can't prove
you're a good person though i suspect you're a good person.”
―
you're a good person though i suspect you're a good person.”
―
“In other languages,
you are beautiful- mort, muerto- I wish
I spoke moon, I wish the bottom of the ocean
were sitting in that chair playing cards
and noticing how famous you are
on my cell phone- picture of your eyes
guarding your nose and the fire
you set by walking, picture of dawn
getting up early to enthrall your skin- what I hate
about stars is they’re not those candles
that make a joke of cake, that you blow on
and they die and come back, and you
you’re not those candles either, how often I realize
I’m not breathing, to be like you
or just afraid to move at all, a lung
or finger, is it time already
for inventory, a mountain, I have three
of those, a bag of hair, box of ashes, if you
were a cigarette I’d be cancer, if you
were a leaf, you were a leaf, every leaf, as far
as this tree can say.”
―
you are beautiful- mort, muerto- I wish
I spoke moon, I wish the bottom of the ocean
were sitting in that chair playing cards
and noticing how famous you are
on my cell phone- picture of your eyes
guarding your nose and the fire
you set by walking, picture of dawn
getting up early to enthrall your skin- what I hate
about stars is they’re not those candles
that make a joke of cake, that you blow on
and they die and come back, and you
you’re not those candles either, how often I realize
I’m not breathing, to be like you
or just afraid to move at all, a lung
or finger, is it time already
for inventory, a mountain, I have three
of those, a bag of hair, box of ashes, if you
were a cigarette I’d be cancer, if you
were a leaf, you were a leaf, every leaf, as far
as this tree can say.”
―
“Let us all be from somewhere.”
―
―
“Then I felt up silence. Then silence and I went all the way.”
―
―
“I will beg, will take to my knees, will listen to snow
stroking air, a sky of gasps, will open my mouth,
swallow, somewhere else the sky is falling,
somewhere else it gets back up.”
―
stroking air, a sky of gasps, will open my mouth,
swallow, somewhere else the sky is falling,
somewhere else it gets back up.”
―
“My life the only thing that has been with me my whole life”
―
―
“I think clapping is how mourn.”
―
―
“You might think and be so marvelously right about praise that you open your door one day and the day walks in and stays for years.”
―
―
“Truth About Love"
I apologize for not being Gandhi or Tom
the mailman who is always kind.
He makes his way every day no matter
the mood of the sky with our words
in a sack and Gandhi made the English
give India back without
taking a gun for a wife. My contribution
to the common good is playing
with the alphabet in a little room
while the world goes foraging
for food. I’m a better poet than man
and it’s well known how little
my verbs are worth. I am my only subject,
being the god of my horizons.
What saves me is that just beyond my skin
the world of yours is where
I’d rather live. The AMA says you’ve added
seven point six years to my life.
In a phrase, love is a transfer of wealth.
This is why Adam Smith gave up
romantic verse. In trying to say what can’t
be said I’ll take the Dragnet
approach. Just the facts. I’d be dead
sooner without you, you’ll die faster
for being a Mrs., raw deal can’t be more
clearly defined. To make amends
I offer ten percent more kisses each year.
Or do I do more harm the closer
we become? If yes, leaving would be love
and a better man might. But my thrills
are selfishly domestic. I like sweeping words
into piles and whispering good night.”
― Insomnia Diary
I apologize for not being Gandhi or Tom
the mailman who is always kind.
He makes his way every day no matter
the mood of the sky with our words
in a sack and Gandhi made the English
give India back without
taking a gun for a wife. My contribution
to the common good is playing
with the alphabet in a little room
while the world goes foraging
for food. I’m a better poet than man
and it’s well known how little
my verbs are worth. I am my only subject,
being the god of my horizons.
What saves me is that just beyond my skin
the world of yours is where
I’d rather live. The AMA says you’ve added
seven point six years to my life.
In a phrase, love is a transfer of wealth.
This is why Adam Smith gave up
romantic verse. In trying to say what can’t
be said I’ll take the Dragnet
approach. Just the facts. I’d be dead
sooner without you, you’ll die faster
for being a Mrs., raw deal can’t be more
clearly defined. To make amends
I offer ten percent more kisses each year.
Or do I do more harm the closer
we become? If yes, leaving would be love
and a better man might. But my thrills
are selfishly domestic. I like sweeping words
into piles and whispering good night.”
― Insomnia Diary
“I had no business trying to see you leave, see death arrive, I owe you an apology, an elegy, I owe you the drift of memory, the praise of everything, of saying it was the best decision of my life, to hold you full, hold you empty, & live as the only bond between the two.”
―
―
“Torn
The internet’s all show, no actual cunnilingus
has transpired between us. This has been
smoke signals from eye to eye. And just
like the telegraph, the telephone
gave us a means to the ends of staying
ever closer to home, ever farther
from the ear we’d dot-dash
or whisper into, what a sad story
for flesh, marooned. First by the womb,
then the word traveled fast and free
of lips, now your hips can thrive
in my brain without entering my life.
I might as well be on the moon.
The evolution of communication’s
to mythologize togetherness
as we drift entropically apart.
That’s what the kids
call a thesis statement. But god
you’re hot, and your crescendo
of breath so fully apes
the real deal, is it possible
we can be islanded and still come
to prefer absence to presence,
the digital to the palpable?
I fear the question answers itself
by nodding to the fact that I
can write a poem and you read it
with no hand having touched metal
or paper or words that don’t dissolve
as soon as a switch is thrown.
Half of my soul says, Get used to it.
The other million percent begs, Don’t.”
―
The internet’s all show, no actual cunnilingus
has transpired between us. This has been
smoke signals from eye to eye. And just
like the telegraph, the telephone
gave us a means to the ends of staying
ever closer to home, ever farther
from the ear we’d dot-dash
or whisper into, what a sad story
for flesh, marooned. First by the womb,
then the word traveled fast and free
of lips, now your hips can thrive
in my brain without entering my life.
I might as well be on the moon.
The evolution of communication’s
to mythologize togetherness
as we drift entropically apart.
That’s what the kids
call a thesis statement. But god
you’re hot, and your crescendo
of breath so fully apes
the real deal, is it possible
we can be islanded and still come
to prefer absence to presence,
the digital to the palpable?
I fear the question answers itself
by nodding to the fact that I
can write a poem and you read it
with no hand having touched metal
or paper or words that don’t dissolve
as soon as a switch is thrown.
Half of my soul says, Get used to it.
The other million percent begs, Don’t.”
―
“My heart is cold,
it should wear a mitten. My heart
is whatever temperature a heart is
in a man who doesn’t believe in heaven.
from “Pilgrimage”
― Elegy Owed
it should wear a mitten. My heart
is whatever temperature a heart is
in a man who doesn’t believe in heaven.
from “Pilgrimage”
― Elegy Owed
“All my love poems are to her and everything and stupid"
We built a Tesla coil
to take x-rays
of each other’s tongues or dew
perspires on the inside. Hard work,
being lovely at dawn, when the firing squad
fires up. No blindfold
for me, I’d watch lightning die
in my arms if I could stand that tall.
Then we fucked and x-rayed our panting
after. Where she saw a horse, I saw moonlight
braiding its hair. It’s possible
a crow is a piece of the night
crossing the day, a reconnaissance
by dream, a renaissance
of unity: she and I and every atom
in this together, whatever this is,
it’s lovely of her knees
to bring her eyes to me
to be as brown as I dare say dirt.
The kind I hold and think, I owe you
breath, that I could almost
put in a bowl and eat without bothering
to wait for the world
after rain that will grow from it.
Blackbird, Fall 2011 Vol. 10 No. 2”
―
We built a Tesla coil
to take x-rays
of each other’s tongues or dew
perspires on the inside. Hard work,
being lovely at dawn, when the firing squad
fires up. No blindfold
for me, I’d watch lightning die
in my arms if I could stand that tall.
Then we fucked and x-rayed our panting
after. Where she saw a horse, I saw moonlight
braiding its hair. It’s possible
a crow is a piece of the night
crossing the day, a reconnaissance
by dream, a renaissance
of unity: she and I and every atom
in this together, whatever this is,
it’s lovely of her knees
to bring her eyes to me
to be as brown as I dare say dirt.
The kind I hold and think, I owe you
breath, that I could almost
put in a bowl and eat without bothering
to wait for the world
after rain that will grow from it.
Blackbird, Fall 2011 Vol. 10 No. 2”
―
“Rain, with patience
and the greed of love
to hold, will slowly erase his name
and everything it touches, it always sounds
like a eulogy to me, the sky
trying to figure out what to say
about loss, and making a mess of it
like the rest of us.”
―
and the greed of love
to hold, will slowly erase his name
and everything it touches, it always sounds
like a eulogy to me, the sky
trying to figure out what to say
about loss, and making a mess of it
like the rest of us.”
―
“The gift"
My wife gave me a tie made of the thread
of life. I was afraid to wear a tie
made of the thread of life. That it would snag.
That I’d spill coffee on it. But I wore it,
and every person who looked at it
saw something different. One
a waterfall, one a lava flow, one a forest
primeval. Coming home, I took it off
and forgot it on the bus. When I told
my wife, she laughed and said,
did you really think I’d give you a tie
made of the thread of life? That was a tie
made of silk, which is the memory
of cocoons, which are wombs, you were wearing
birth. I told her her thoughts
are the happy childhood I didn’t have.
The sun was in her hair, where it stayed
until she combed it out that night.
New England Review (vol. 31, no. 3, 2010)”
―
My wife gave me a tie made of the thread
of life. I was afraid to wear a tie
made of the thread of life. That it would snag.
That I’d spill coffee on it. But I wore it,
and every person who looked at it
saw something different. One
a waterfall, one a lava flow, one a forest
primeval. Coming home, I took it off
and forgot it on the bus. When I told
my wife, she laughed and said,
did you really think I’d give you a tie
made of the thread of life? That was a tie
made of silk, which is the memory
of cocoons, which are wombs, you were wearing
birth. I told her her thoughts
are the happy childhood I didn’t have.
The sun was in her hair, where it stayed
until she combed it out that night.
New England Review (vol. 31, no. 3, 2010)”
―
“When I don’t touch you it’s a mistake in any life,
in each place and forever.
— Bob Hicok from, “Other Lives and Dimensions and Finally a Love Poem,” Plus Shipping. (BOA Editions Ltd.; 1st ed edition October 1, 1998)”
― Plus Shipping
in each place and forever.
— Bob Hicok from, “Other Lives and Dimensions and Finally a Love Poem,” Plus Shipping. (BOA Editions Ltd.; 1st ed edition October 1, 1998)”
― Plus Shipping
“If you come by for breakfast,
I’ll pour you a bowl of thorns,
so don’t. I need some time alone,
like the rest of my life.”
―
I’ll pour you a bowl of thorns,
so don’t. I need some time alone,
like the rest of my life.”
―
“Truth About Love"
I apologize for not being Gandhi or Tom
the mailman who is always kind.
He makes his way every day no matter
the mood of the sky with our words
in a sack and Gandhi made the English
give India back without
taking a gun for a wife. My contribution
to the common good is playing
with the alphabet in a little room
while the world goes foraging
for food. I’m a better poet than man
and it’s well known how little
my verbs are worth. I am my only subject,
being the god of my horizons.
What saves me is that just beyond my skin
the world of yours is where
I’d rather live. The AMA says you’ve added
seven point six years to my life.
In a phrase, love is a transfer of wealth.
This is why Adam Smith gave up
romantic verse. In trying to say what can’t
be said I’ll take the Dragnet
approach. Just the facts. I’d be dead
sooner without you, you’ll die faster
for being a Mrs., raw deal can’t be more
clearly defined. To make amends
I offer ten percent more kisses each year.
Or do I do more harm the closer
we become? If yes, leaving would be love
and a better man might. But my thrills
are selfishly domestic. I like sweeping words
into piles and whispering good night.
Bob Hicok, Insomnia Diary. (University of Pittsburgh Press. 2004)”
― Insomnia Diary
I apologize for not being Gandhi or Tom
the mailman who is always kind.
He makes his way every day no matter
the mood of the sky with our words
in a sack and Gandhi made the English
give India back without
taking a gun for a wife. My contribution
to the common good is playing
with the alphabet in a little room
while the world goes foraging
for food. I’m a better poet than man
and it’s well known how little
my verbs are worth. I am my only subject,
being the god of my horizons.
What saves me is that just beyond my skin
the world of yours is where
I’d rather live. The AMA says you’ve added
seven point six years to my life.
In a phrase, love is a transfer of wealth.
This is why Adam Smith gave up
romantic verse. In trying to say what can’t
be said I’ll take the Dragnet
approach. Just the facts. I’d be dead
sooner without you, you’ll die faster
for being a Mrs., raw deal can’t be more
clearly defined. To make amends
I offer ten percent more kisses each year.
Or do I do more harm the closer
we become? If yes, leaving would be love
and a better man might. But my thrills
are selfishly domestic. I like sweeping words
into piles and whispering good night.
Bob Hicok, Insomnia Diary. (University of Pittsburgh Press. 2004)”
― Insomnia Diary
“The wise will go upstairs,
undo buttons and hair,
fold themselves
within the covenant of flesh
and make love
wilder than any weather.
— Bob Hicok, from “Weather,” The Legend of Light (The University of Wisconsin Press, 1995)”
― The Legend of Light
undo buttons and hair,
fold themselves
within the covenant of flesh
and make love
wilder than any weather.
— Bob Hicok, from “Weather,” The Legend of Light (The University of Wisconsin Press, 1995)”
― The Legend of Light
“My Jewish problem is figuring out
why America in 2016 has a dab
of 1930s German Fascism to it--
people at political rallies
yelling crap about the Jews.”
―
why America in 2016 has a dab
of 1930s German Fascism to it--
people at political rallies
yelling crap about the Jews.”
―
“Sweet"
My habit in December is to peel an orange
as I walk—bits of peel in my pockets—
pants that smell of Florida—and sometimes
approach a car at an intersection—
tap on the window—interrupt
the driver’s rapture of watching
for the green light of release—I’m sworn at
by most—flipped-off—or ignored
with the same passion I’m ignored by God—
but she rolled down her window
when I made the motion of a crank
with my hand—took the half I offered—
the sweetness of a warmer sky—
and ate the slices in front of me—with me—
as I my equal measure devoured—then left
our common life together—the only moment
of our eternal bond—the link
that will play out as a long string
between us, no matter what pleasure
is advanced by other days—we looked
at each other and ate bits of a world
making the most of the sun—of the light
that is blowing away into nothingness—
the moment so small, so precise,
it was easy to love everything
we knew of each other—I had a gift
and she had a desire
to accept that gift—we were whole—
we were cured—had advanced
the cause of being
ever so slightly along the path
it wanders with us, little bits of dust
caught in its hair.
New England Review (vol. 37, no. 1, 2016)”
―
My habit in December is to peel an orange
as I walk—bits of peel in my pockets—
pants that smell of Florida—and sometimes
approach a car at an intersection—
tap on the window—interrupt
the driver’s rapture of watching
for the green light of release—I’m sworn at
by most—flipped-off—or ignored
with the same passion I’m ignored by God—
but she rolled down her window
when I made the motion of a crank
with my hand—took the half I offered—
the sweetness of a warmer sky—
and ate the slices in front of me—with me—
as I my equal measure devoured—then left
our common life together—the only moment
of our eternal bond—the link
that will play out as a long string
between us, no matter what pleasure
is advanced by other days—we looked
at each other and ate bits of a world
making the most of the sun—of the light
that is blowing away into nothingness—
the moment so small, so precise,
it was easy to love everything
we knew of each other—I had a gift
and she had a desire
to accept that gift—we were whole—
we were cured—had advanced
the cause of being
ever so slightly along the path
it wanders with us, little bits of dust
caught in its hair.
New England Review (vol. 37, no. 1, 2016)”
―
“Alice Wakes at Two and Looks Out the Window"
A gate, she thinks,
I'm the gate
of my breathing,
of this powdery chant,
and I'll always mistake stars
for dust exploding
white in the noon sun.
They dance, those jewels,
as will I,
dance to the zoo
with my blue feet on,
with a silver drum,
dance bad words and hard tunes,
dance the colors men blush to.
Once there
I'll climb the fences,
seduce the alarms,
I'll move from lion
to monkey to lamb
and kiss the small packets
of their hearts.
Then come home to bed,
to warm eternity,
to the wheel
that twines my flesh
and spins it to sleep.
So fall, star,
and meet your embrace.
I'll name you True Love
and lick you with wishes.”
― The Legend of Light
A gate, she thinks,
I'm the gate
of my breathing,
of this powdery chant,
and I'll always mistake stars
for dust exploding
white in the noon sun.
They dance, those jewels,
as will I,
dance to the zoo
with my blue feet on,
with a silver drum,
dance bad words and hard tunes,
dance the colors men blush to.
Once there
I'll climb the fences,
seduce the alarms,
I'll move from lion
to monkey to lamb
and kiss the small packets
of their hearts.
Then come home to bed,
to warm eternity,
to the wheel
that twines my flesh
and spins it to sleep.
So fall, star,
and meet your embrace.
I'll name you True Love
and lick you with wishes.”
― The Legend of Light
“Truth About Love"
I apologize for not being Gandhi or Tom
the mailman who is always kind.
He makes his way every day no matter
the mood of the sky with our words
in a sack and Gandhi made the English
give India back without
taking a gun for a wife. My contribution
to the common good is playing
with the alphabet in a little room
while the world goes foraging
for food. I’m a better poet than man
and it’s well known how little
my verbs are worth. I am my only subject,
being the god of my horizons.
What saves me is that just beyond my skin
the world of yours is where
I’d rather live. The AMA says you’ve added
seven point six years to my life.
In a phrase, love is a transfer of wealth.
This is why Adam Smith gave up
romantic verse. In trying to say what can’t
be said I’ll take the Dragnet
approach. Just the facts. I’d be dead
sooner without you, you’ll die faster
for being a Mrs., raw deal can’t be more
clearly defined. To make amends
I offer ten percent more kisses each year.
Or do I do more harm the closer
we become? If yes, leaving would be love
and a better man might. But my thrills
are selfishly domestic. I like sweeping words
into piles and whispering good night.”
― Insomnia Diary
I apologize for not being Gandhi or Tom
the mailman who is always kind.
He makes his way every day no matter
the mood of the sky with our words
in a sack and Gandhi made the English
give India back without
taking a gun for a wife. My contribution
to the common good is playing
with the alphabet in a little room
while the world goes foraging
for food. I’m a better poet than man
and it’s well known how little
my verbs are worth. I am my only subject,
being the god of my horizons.
What saves me is that just beyond my skin
the world of yours is where
I’d rather live. The AMA says you’ve added
seven point six years to my life.
In a phrase, love is a transfer of wealth.
This is why Adam Smith gave up
romantic verse. In trying to say what can’t
be said I’ll take the Dragnet
approach. Just the facts. I’d be dead
sooner without you, you’ll die faster
for being a Mrs., raw deal can’t be more
clearly defined. To make amends
I offer ten percent more kisses each year.
Or do I do more harm the closer
we become? If yes, leaving would be love
and a better man might. But my thrills
are selfishly domestic. I like sweeping words
into piles and whispering good night.”
― Insomnia Diary
“When I don’t touch you it’s a mistake in any life, in each place and forever.”
―
―
