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A review by danmc
This Clumsy Living by Bob Hicok
2.0
My first encounter with Hicok's work was "Alzheimer's" in Billy Collins' 180 poems. I thought it was a terribly poignant image of a man trying to help his mother as she loses her mind.
Alzheimer’s
Chairs move by themselves, and books.
Grandchildren visit, stand new and nameless,
their faces’ puzzles missing pieces.
She’s like a fish in a deep ocean,
its body made of light.
She floats through rooms,
through my eyes,
an old woman bereft of chronicle,
the parable of her life.
And though she’s almost a child
there’s still blood between us;
I passed through her to arrive.
So I protect her from knives, stairs,
from the street that calls as rivers do,
a summons to walk away, to follow.
And dress her,
demonstrate how buttons work,
when she sometimes looks up
and says my name,
the sound arriving like the trill of a bird
so rare it’s rumored no longer to exist.
I was so moved, I was moved to Powell's to buy this book. But nothing in This Clumsy Living struck me with that same honest heartfulness as that first poem. I found a few poems memorable, like "In Michael Robins's class minus one" and "Failures in meditation" and "Beasts". But overall the most powerful words were washed out in a stream of self-conscious college-professor wordplay: "A poem with a poem in its belly", "Waiting for my foot to ring", "The personal touch", as well as the four poems in a row that began "My" and were (taken together) more self-absorbed than wryly self-deprecating.
Ultimately, I felt as though Hicok had spent too much time in a college context, so that his potential and heart was either smothered or channeled into meaningless experimentation with form.
Alzheimer’s
Chairs move by themselves, and books.
Grandchildren visit, stand new and nameless,
their faces’ puzzles missing pieces.
She’s like a fish in a deep ocean,
its body made of light.
She floats through rooms,
through my eyes,
an old woman bereft of chronicle,
the parable of her life.
And though she’s almost a child
there’s still blood between us;
I passed through her to arrive.
So I protect her from knives, stairs,
from the street that calls as rivers do,
a summons to walk away, to follow.
And dress her,
demonstrate how buttons work,
when she sometimes looks up
and says my name,
the sound arriving like the trill of a bird
so rare it’s rumored no longer to exist.
I was so moved, I was moved to Powell's to buy this book. But nothing in This Clumsy Living struck me with that same honest heartfulness as that first poem. I found a few poems memorable, like "In Michael Robins's class minus one" and "Failures in meditation" and "Beasts". But overall the most powerful words were washed out in a stream of self-conscious college-professor wordplay: "A poem with a poem in its belly", "Waiting for my foot to ring", "The personal touch", as well as the four poems in a row that began "My" and were (taken together) more self-absorbed than wryly self-deprecating.
Ultimately, I felt as though Hicok had spent too much time in a college context, so that his potential and heart was either smothered or channeled into meaningless experimentation with form.