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Elegy Owed, by Bob Hicok
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National Book Critics Circle Award finalist.
Paterson Award for Literary Excellence.
"What Hicok's getting at [in Elegy Owed] is both the necessity and the inadequacy of language, the very bluntness of which (talk about a paradox) makes it all the more essential that we engage with it as a precision instrument, a force of clarity, of (at times) awful grace."—Los Angeles Times
"[A] fluid, absorbing new collection. . . . Highly recommended."—Library Journal, starred review
When asked in an interview "What would Bob Hicok launch from a giant sling shot?" he answered "Bob Hicok." Elegy Owed—Hicok's eighth book—is an existential game of Twister in which the rules of mourning are broken and salvaged, and "you can never step into the same not going home again twice."
From "Notes for a time capsule":
The twig in. I'll put the twig in I carry in my pocket
and my pocket and my eye, my left eye. A cup
of the Ganges and the bacteria from shit
in the Ganges and the anyway ablutions of rainbow-
robed Hindus in the Ganges. The dawnline of the mountain
with contrail above like an accent in a language
too large for my mouth. A mirror
so whoever opens the past will see themselves
in the past and fall back from their face
speaking to them across centuries or hours
or the nearnevers . . .
Bob Hicok's worked as an automotive die designer and a computer system administrator before becoming an associate professor of English at Virginia Tech. He lives in Blacksburg, Virginia.
- Sales Rank: #1090318 in eBooks
- Published on: 2013-04-23
- Released on: 2013-04-23
- Format: Kindle eBook
From Booklist
Words have weight in Hicok’s poems. They feel nailed in place, and the meter hits like the sure pounding of a hammer. Yet as heft, muscle, and precision draw you forward, Hicok evokes not solidity but, rather, shifting ground, flux, metamorphosis, and, most arrestingly, most unnervingly, death. In his seventh collection, Hicok builds startling images out of the everyday and the surreal, the comic and the sorrowful. Avoiding abstraction and pretension (one particularly teasing poem is titled “Knockturn”), he cleaves to earth, skin, breath. He describes odd, private rituals involving attempts to reassemble shards and stop time. His variations on the elegy can be haunting, romantic, and bracingly irreverent. “Elegy to hunger” begins, “There’s a strain of cannibalism / I admire.” Intimate lyrics of love, fear, loss, and cosmic perplexity are matched by robust dissections and protests. Hicok’s mordant view of our doomed consumer culture in “Obituary for the middle class” is balanced by his gruffly tender objection to the word inanimate, “Steel’s got a pulse / as far as I’m concerned.” This trenchant collection’s got heart and soul. --Donna Seaman
About the Author
Bob Hicok: Bob Hicok's poems have appeared in The New Yorker, Poetry, and The American Poetry Review. His books include This Clumsy Living (Univ. Pittsburgh, 2007), which was awarded the 2008 Bobbitt Prize from the Library of Congress, and The Legend of Light (Univ. Wisconsin, 1995), which was named a "Notable Book of the Year" by Booklist. Hicok has worked as an automotive die designer and a computer system administrator, and is currently an Associate Professor of English at Virginia Tech. He lives in Blacksburg, Virginia.
Most helpful customer reviews
11 of 12 people found the following review helpful.
Musings on death and loss and aspects of enduring
By Grady Harp
Bob Hicok surprises us on every page of this latest collection of his poems. He deals with death and mourning in his own language, his own perspective and the result is some of the more initially tough and yet beautifully constructed poems we are finding at the moment. Some background: 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. Gritty, complicated, and earnest, Elegy Owed breaks--then salvages--the rules for mourning. While poet Bob Hicok remembers the departed as ephemera or skin cells, fog is invited to tea and the beauty of dandelion fluff is held for ransom. Hicok's language is so humid with expectation and fearlessness that his poems create a clandestine manual to survival.
According to the Poetry Foundation, `Hicok's poetry is known for its accessible, meditative style. Narrative and associational, his poems are at once funny and wry, poignant and silly, smart and sad: they offer varied portraits of the lives and stories of working people, violence, pop culture, unexpected beauty, and trenchant observations on human nature. Over the course of his career, Hicok has evolved into one of contemporary poetry's most popular poets.'
Some examples of Hicok's poetry follow:
THE ORDER OF THINGS
Then I stopped hearing from you. Then I thought
I was Beethoven's cochlear implant. Then I listened
to deafness. Then I tacked a whisper
to the bulletin board. Then I liked dandelions
best in their afro stage. Then a breeze
held their soft beauty for ransom. Then no one
throws a Molotov cocktail better
than a Buddhist monk...
from NOTES OR A TIME CAPSULE
The word terror
I'll bury the word terror
to be free of the word terror......
If terror is said
seven times in a row, it loses meaning becomes
humdrum, a mere timpani of ear.
If terror is said seven hundred
thousand million trillion times, I am being raped
by a word.
ODE TO ONGOING
I'm driving along,
or painting a board or wondering
if we love animals because we can't talk with them
more intimately that we can't talk with God
and the whole time there's this background hum
of sex and devotion and fear, people telling
good-night stories or leaving their babies
in dumpsters but mostly working hard
to feed the future what it needs to grow strong
and prefer sweet over sour, consonance
to dissonance, to be the only creatures who notice
the stars or at least use them metaphorically
to go on and on about the longing we harbor
in such tiny spaces relative to the extent
of our dread that we're in this all alone.
This is a book of powerful, exquisitely crafted poetry, poems that we can't ignore if we are to find a meaning to existence when all else is contradicting our attempts at positive thoughts. Bob Hicok is a major poet. Grady Harp, May 13
6 of 6 people found the following review helpful.
Brave New Work by a Beloved Evocative Poet
By C. O. Aptowicz
I am, admittedly, a huge Bob Hicok fan. I have all of his book (some of which I've previously reviewed on Amazon) and have felt privileged to watch his work evolve over the years in real. And in "Elegy Owed," his latest collection, he seems to have taken an enormous leap!
I remember seeing a Mark Rothko retrospective in DC when I was younger, and -- knowing how his painting style was going to end up -- marveling as the timeline the exhibition allowed me to watch the figuration in this paintings getting slighter and slighter, as the evocative color wash backgrounds get bolder and bolder. When he finally removed figures from his paintings altogether, his paintings pulsed and glow with pure color and emotion. You didn't need to understand what he was trying to express with the painting, but rather needed to just open yourself up to what it evoked in you.
I thought of this a lot while reading "Elegy Owed," as Hicok seems to have taken a big step away from traditional narrative work. This isn't to say this pieces don't sing with narrative elements, but images and tones are sometimes allowed to shimmer and glow without full context, and it is scary and delicious to allow this sorts of unmoored poems find a place in our reader hearts.
While the book is infused with themes of death, loss and betrayal, Hicok's stunning lines and turns, as well as his constant self-awareness ("We didn't jump-this is a poem" he writes in a poem titled "To speak somewhat figuratively about S.") still very much electrify. I feel in love with his work again and again with stanzas like "At the funeral, she wore a tricycle being pushed by her father / when she was five, her legs out to the side. // That's only true in this poem, like the cloud I'm looking at / is only true in this sky. / In all other skies, this cloud is a lie."
Or "When my father dies / naturally I'll want to call him / and tell him my father has died, he won't pick up, I'll decide / he's out raking leaves, that leaves are sullen, that I'm hungry / that my father hasn't died, and when he finally answers, / I'll stand in the kitchen wondering why I called, most / of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich completed, / all that will remain is for the parts to be joined, the jelly / to the peanut butter wing, I'll tell my father / I'm cooking, he'll nod and I'll hear him nod."
I mean, my stars, it just knocks me out! And those are just two examples!
Fans of his more narrative and concrete work should know there are a lot of mysteries in this book that won't be answered for you -- but that's a part of its delight, and a part of Hicok's wonderful journey as an artist. With "Elegy Owed" we are given all the bright and dark washes of his every evolving emotions, and it is a beautiful thing.
2 of 2 people found the following review helpful.
An acquired taste
By Mrs. Frisky
But once you have it there is no going back. Hicok's voice is so true, and so plain-spoken, that you begin recognizing yourself in his words very soon. A special kind of poet, perhaps, but an extremely thoughtful and rewarding one.
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