Bob Hicok is an American poet, born in 1960. He currently is an associate professor of creative writing at Virginia Tech. He is from Michigan and before teaching owned and ran a successful automotive die design business.
His first book, The Legend of Light, (1995) was chosen by Carolyn Kizer for the 1995 Felix Pollak Prize. This book, published by the University of Wisconsin Press, was later chosen an ALA Booklist Notable Book of the Year. Plus Shipping followed in 1998. His 2001 release, Animal Soul, was a finalist for the National Book Critics Circle Award. He has published two other books -- Insomnia Diary (2004) and This Clumsy Living (2007), both with the University of ... more »
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Bob Hicok Poems
Other Lives And Dimensions And Finally A...
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
By Their Works
Who cleaned up the Last Supper? These would be my people. Maybe hung over, wanting desperately a better job,
Another Awkward Stage Of Convalescence
Drunk, I kissed the moon where it stretched on the floor. I'd removed happiness from a green bottle, both sipped and gulped
My father's head has become a mystery to him. We finally have something in common. When he moves his head his eyes get big as roses filled
is a system of posture for wood. A way of not falling down for twigs that happens to benefit birds. I don't know.
What Would Freud Say?
Wasn't on purpose that I drilled through my finger or the nurse laughed. She apologized three times and gave me a shot
Her My Body
The dog licks my hand as I worry about the left nipple of the woman in the bathroom. She is drying her hair, the woman
Learning to Swim
At forty-eight, to be given water, which is most of the world, given life in water, which is most of me, given ease, which is most of what I lack, here, where walls
I met my butt in a Pittsburgh hotel room. My face still looks like my face but not my butt, my hair
You could drive out of this country and attack the world with your ambition, invent wonder plasmas, become an artist of the provocative gesture,
A few hours after Des Moines the toilet overflowed. This wasn't the adventure it sounds. I sat with a man whose tattoos
After Working Sixty Hours Again for What...
The best job I had was moving a stone from one side of the road to the other. This required a permit which required a bribe. The bribe took all my salary.
A Shopkeeper’s Story
I sell one bristle brushes. People seeking two bristle brushes I send to the guy on Amsterdam, who’s in a rush. I may have one customer a year
In the Loop
I heard from people after the shootings. People I knew well or barely or not at all. Largely the same message: how horrible it was, how little there was to say about how horrible it was.
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
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 ...