Happy Holidays: Poem + Special Offer

"My hero the whirligig" by Bob Hicok & a small gift

My hero the whirligig

Bob Hicok

---

For Christmas, I always asked 
to be raised in a home for future stars 
of sitcoms that last three seasons, 
no more or less. There'd be one about Jesus 
the gynecologist, a NASCAR racer 
who could only drive the wrong way, 
the suicide of France, and a girl 
who fought crime with a jump rope. 
In the mirror I'd practice sullen, pensive, 
invisible. But no. I got a bike.
A machine gun. A lump of plutonium.
And a 50 in 1 electronics kit from Radio Shack. 
You could make a radio with it, of course, 
but not a shack. It had a solar cell, 
buzzer, speaker, some diodes and transistors, 
resistors. I fell in love with it, slept with it, 
though not in a sexual way. Eventually 
one of us grew up and went to college,
it would send pictures home I still look at 
from time to time. My 50 in 1 electronics kit 
at a rager, my 50 in 1 electronics kit 
doing its first line of coke, my 50 in 1 
electronics kit walking home in the rain.
I never understood who took that picture, 
how anyone's solitude gets to know 
anyone else's. And how do we know who feels
most alone? There's no scale for that
like the Mohs or Richter scales. God 
I hate this: another poem
about what's missing. So what's here? 
I see my hands, an open book about art, 
what appears to be the Earth outside my window,
the part I know best, the little cranny
I hang out in. And every moment is filled 
with the chance I could bake a birthday cake 
every day. Revolutions can be that small, 
that sweet. You'll see. One day 
you'll wake up and look at the tornado 
of your life and decide to fire 
the weatherman, not the weather.
What do I know. Let's leave it at this:
one day you'll wake up. Not to an alarm clock, 
not so you can swim the English channel,
not in a fog or haze or city
overlooking the Danube, but to a tone,
a clear, precise tone like the sound
you've always imagined stars would make
if you could put your ear firmly 
against the night. And then what --
tell me. I get the feeling
you're an amazing creature 
whose plumage has yet to fully unfold. 
Half bird half ukelele. Quarter volcano
and three quarters Leonard Bernstein.
I'm so excited about the day now,
this one and maybe the three after that.
Then who knows. We'll see. Baby steps
are for babies. Let's think bigger.
I'm talking strides, leaps. 
Hell with that: leaps and bounds.
Why should helicopters 
have all the fun? We too 
can spin and spin and rise.

---

A Small Gift

Hi there, I’m Karan Kapoor, the Editor-in-Chief over at ONLY POEMS. Bob Hicok, in many ways, is the reason I write and continue to fall in love with poetry every single day. I’d love to invite you to subscribe to a new, free Substack.

You’ll usually get one Bob Hicok poem in your inbox every week. Sometimes, you might get two. Sometimes they’ll be previously published gems, other times I’ll be sharing exclusive, brand new poetry written by Bob Hicok.

In case you don’t know who he is, here’s a little bio:

Bob Hicok is the author of Water Look Away (Copper Canyon Press, 2023). He has received a Guggenheim, two NEA Fellowships, the Bobbitt Prize from the Library of Congress, nine Pushcart Prizes, and was twice a finalist for the National Book Critics Circle Award. His poems have appeared in nine volumes of the Best American Poetry.

This is a free Substack, and the sole reason it exists is to share the joy of poetry. Specifically, Bob’s — yes, but also what his words represent and reach for: all the beauty, wonder & hope churning and dancing in our weird surreal universe all around us.

I look forward to sharing these poems with you. Please know that this Substack is not run by Bob Hicok himself, but we do have his blessings.

Happy Holidays to everyone!

Shannan, Karan, & Justine

Bonus!

As a special gift from us to you, get 25% off an annual subscription if you subscribe before the new year!