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The Legend of Light
Whether Hicok is considering the reflection of human faces in the Vietnam War Memorial or the elements of a “Modern Prototype” factory, he prompts an icy realization that we may have never seen the world as it truly is. But his resilient voice and consistent perspective is neither blaming nor didactic, and ultimately enlightening. From the shadowed corners into which we dare not look clearly, Hicok makes us witness and hero of The Legend of Light .
- GenresPoetry
96 pages, Paperback
First published September 1, 1995
1 person is currently reading
77 people want to read
About the author
Bob Hicok
52 books94 followersBob Hicok was born in 1960. His most recent collection, This Clumsy Living (University of Pittsburgh Press, 2007), was awarded the 2008 Bobbitt Prize from the Library of Congress. His other books are Insomnia Diary (Pitt, 2004), Animal Soul (Invisible Cities Press, 2001),a finalist for the National Book Critics Circle Award, Plus Shipping (BOA, 1998), and The Legend of Light (University of Wisconsin, 1995), which received the Felix Pollak Prize in Poetry and was named a 1997 ALA Booklist Notable Book of the Year. A recipient of three Pushcart Prizes, Guggenheim and two NEA Fellowships, his poetry has been selected for inclusion in five volumes of Best American Poetry.
Hicok writes poems that value speech and storytelling, that revel in the material offered by pop culture, and that deny categories such as "academic" or "narrative." As Elizabeth Gaffney wrote for the New York Times Book Review: "Each of Mr. Hicok's poems is marked by the exalted moderation of his voice—erudition without pretension, wisdom without pontification, honesty devoid of confessional melodrama. . . . His judicious eye imbues even the dreadful with beauty and meaning."
Hicok has worked as an automotive die designer and a computer system administrator, and is currently an Associate Professor of English at Virginia Tech in Blacksburg.
Hicok writes poems that value speech and storytelling, that revel in the material offered by pop culture, and that deny categories such as "academic" or "narrative." As Elizabeth Gaffney wrote for the New York Times Book Review: "Each of Mr. Hicok's poems is marked by the exalted moderation of his voice—erudition without pretension, wisdom without pontification, honesty devoid of confessional melodrama. . . . His judicious eye imbues even the dreadful with beauty and meaning."
Hicok has worked as an automotive die designer and a computer system administrator, and is currently an Associate Professor of English at Virginia Tech in Blacksburg.
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Displaying 1 - 12 of 12 reviews
October 11, 2019
4/5
i didn’t like this collection as much as I did the others i read by him, but there were definitely some gems in it. not rlly sure what else to say. the entirety of “The Dead” blew me away but i just quoted a few lines. same with “AIDS.”
some lines & quotes i loved:
“Masked, they cut you, peel back
your skin for the legend of light
to enter your body. In this moment
they love you. You’ll know this
years from now, when being a rug
you feel their hands inside you,
a shock of warmth, invasion of concern
as if you were back on the table
but aware and aware of the fear
dilating their eyes. How else can it be
for the strangers who take your breath,
contain it in a machine and give it back,
Its meter undisturbed? They cut to flaw,
down to a blue tumor the size of an old e.
As they do they think of time, how little
it takes for the riotously dividing cells
to reach blood, to enter the cosmos
of a body and travel to another organ,
another world, advancing cancer’s
parasitical flowering. Finally they try
to erase any sign they were there,
stitch and staple where they’ve cut.
If done well it’s like walking backward
across a newly mopped floor. There
are only a few clues, in this case
a scar and the fact on any trivial day
you’re still alive.”
— Surgery
“If you could embrace
or hover about the dead,
a lover licking their fingers
or judge
with a rat’s black eyes,
you’d have your moments
of tenderness and retribution
the chance to rub a friend’s canceled chest,
to stand before the father
who beat you with the leg of a chair
and pain his eternity
with your unexpected forgiveness,
to smell your child’s skin as it was in sunlight
or dance with your wife again
to the Dipper Mouth Bues,
to stare into the labyrinth of their eyes
until the visitation ends
and you’re left alone with the moon,
which you’ve also taken for granted
They’ll never come,
though this won’t keep you
from calling their names
when there’s music in the elms
and you’re snapped awake
by the dream that’s trying to kill you.”
— The Dead
“I don’t know
if it’s a miracle or sin
that I can place my teeth
in a glass of water at night,
and wonder if this stranger’s heart
sewn into my chest isn’t lonely
and slowly dying of grief, if it
will simply stop and leave me
waving my arms in the air. I
didn’t expect any of this,
the moments when I forget
a city, a person, and the days,
made up of such moments, perhaps soon
the years, but I’m grateful
for the terror of these surprises
given how it might have turned out,
given that I expect the alternative
to be nothing at all.
— 85
“And when my mother kisses me
I cried in the way we sometimes do—
no tears, a burning force
behind the face,
pain turned upon itself,
a kind of emotional cannibalism—“
“I wanted to assure them
I’d been loved
that there’d been someone
whose hand I’d held
whose weaknesses I’d never betrayed.
How is it that people exist
so far apart
that we stand a hand away
yet look upon each other
as ghosts,
as dust we love
yet cannot see or reach.
We looked at the stars come out,
in bunches, in leaps and swirls,
and I could say nothing,
could move no nearer,
no farther away.
I left the next morning,
afraid if I stayed
they’d cry,
cry and shatter
to look at me,
because I know thy feel
it’s somehow their fault,
that even this
they should have been able
to protect me from.
If only I could convince them
could say something
which might work its way
into their sleep
their hearts,
and soothe, and solace.
But all I can think of
is that you love as you have to
and die the best you can.”
— AIDS
“I fell asleep in the rain.
Its too many kisses
washed my face away.
I thought it a dream,
but woke with little
to offer mirrors.
Now the sky
is clear.
However
the forecast
is for rain.
These are my shoes,
this is my shirt,
this a list
of my sins,
my little pleasures.
Remember them.
Soon they’ll be
what’s left of me.”
— Forecast
i didn’t like this collection as much as I did the others i read by him, but there were definitely some gems in it. not rlly sure what else to say. the entirety of “The Dead” blew me away but i just quoted a few lines. same with “AIDS.”
some lines & quotes i loved:
“Masked, they cut you, peel back
your skin for the legend of light
to enter your body. In this moment
they love you. You’ll know this
years from now, when being a rug
you feel their hands inside you,
a shock of warmth, invasion of concern
as if you were back on the table
but aware and aware of the fear
dilating their eyes. How else can it be
for the strangers who take your breath,
contain it in a machine and give it back,
Its meter undisturbed? They cut to flaw,
down to a blue tumor the size of an old e.
As they do they think of time, how little
it takes for the riotously dividing cells
to reach blood, to enter the cosmos
of a body and travel to another organ,
another world, advancing cancer’s
parasitical flowering. Finally they try
to erase any sign they were there,
stitch and staple where they’ve cut.
If done well it’s like walking backward
across a newly mopped floor. There
are only a few clues, in this case
a scar and the fact on any trivial day
you’re still alive.”
— Surgery
“If you could embrace
or hover about the dead,
a lover licking their fingers
or judge
with a rat’s black eyes,
you’d have your moments
of tenderness and retribution
the chance to rub a friend’s canceled chest,
to stand before the father
who beat you with the leg of a chair
and pain his eternity
with your unexpected forgiveness,
to smell your child’s skin as it was in sunlight
or dance with your wife again
to the Dipper Mouth Bues,
to stare into the labyrinth of their eyes
until the visitation ends
and you’re left alone with the moon,
which you’ve also taken for granted
They’ll never come,
though this won’t keep you
from calling their names
when there’s music in the elms
and you’re snapped awake
by the dream that’s trying to kill you.”
— The Dead
“I don’t know
if it’s a miracle or sin
that I can place my teeth
in a glass of water at night,
and wonder if this stranger’s heart
sewn into my chest isn’t lonely
and slowly dying of grief, if it
will simply stop and leave me
waving my arms in the air. I
didn’t expect any of this,
the moments when I forget
a city, a person, and the days,
made up of such moments, perhaps soon
the years, but I’m grateful
for the terror of these surprises
given how it might have turned out,
given that I expect the alternative
to be nothing at all.
— 85
“And when my mother kisses me
I cried in the way we sometimes do—
no tears, a burning force
behind the face,
pain turned upon itself,
a kind of emotional cannibalism—“
“I wanted to assure them
I’d been loved
that there’d been someone
whose hand I’d held
whose weaknesses I’d never betrayed.
How is it that people exist
so far apart
that we stand a hand away
yet look upon each other
as ghosts,
as dust we love
yet cannot see or reach.
We looked at the stars come out,
in bunches, in leaps and swirls,
and I could say nothing,
could move no nearer,
no farther away.
I left the next morning,
afraid if I stayed
they’d cry,
cry and shatter
to look at me,
because I know thy feel
it’s somehow their fault,
that even this
they should have been able
to protect me from.
If only I could convince them
could say something
which might work its way
into their sleep
their hearts,
and soothe, and solace.
But all I can think of
is that you love as you have to
and die the best you can.”
— AIDS
“I fell asleep in the rain.
Its too many kisses
washed my face away.
I thought it a dream,
but woke with little
to offer mirrors.
Now the sky
is clear.
However
the forecast
is for rain.
These are my shoes,
this is my shirt,
this a list
of my sins,
my little pleasures.
Remember them.
Soon they’ll be
what’s left of me.”
— Forecast
February 21, 2025
Hicok is a master at balancing humor with raw, sometimes violent emotions. His poems are surreal, almost stream of consciousness - at times, it feels like you’re walking through his mind to better understand how he associates memories with truth. What a great premiere collection.
September 5, 2018
Through poems written like vignettes Hicok takes you along a journey of the darker sides of ourselves. His deftness with each poem makes them a captivating read. Enjoy.
Read
June 23, 2025idk…. some of the poems i really liked but not really my thing.
February 21, 2017
Bob hicok strikes again, and to no benefit. More chunky paragraphs, more caprice.
May 9, 2011
Beautiful. I admire Hicok's vocabulary along with the precise way he strings together life's instances. Good range of styles and tones.
My Favorites:
Weather
Surgery
Rearview Mirror
AIDS
Traffic Jam
Nigger
Your Daughter
http://xforwardprogressx.blogspot.com...
My Favorites:
Weather
Surgery
Rearview Mirror
AIDS
Traffic Jam
Nigger
Your Daughter
http://xforwardprogressx.blogspot.com...
Read
April 16, 2009After hearing Hicok read at AWP in Chicago, I wanted more. Deliberately complicated masculinity and wry humor. Tenderness. This book, his first I believe, has wonderful moments. However, I have to confess, I’m hoping that he improves as he continues to write (his other books are waiting on my shelf).
November 13, 2013
Astonishing poetry.
I don't have any patience for a poem that is trying to be a philosophical treatise. Hicok never makes this mistake: he is fundamentally a story-teller. He lives in the world, with other people, not with other writers. It is a place that is urgent and vibrant.
I don't have any patience for a poem that is trying to be a philosophical treatise. Hicok never makes this mistake: he is fundamentally a story-teller. He lives in the world, with other people, not with other writers. It is a place that is urgent and vibrant.
April 29, 2009
While this collection has some extremely strong, painful poems, Hicok, at this point in his career, just hadn't hit his stride.
September 16, 2009
wow! something absolutely beautiful came out of Michigan!
August 8, 2012
I loved this book. The poems generally are about everyday life, and Hicok finds magical ways to transcend the ordinary, often with devastating affect. Highly recommended.
Read
April 12, 2013811.54 H6319 1995
Displaying 1 - 12 of 12 reviews