More than whispers, less than rumors

“Why does lyric poetry exist?”

^{Ground Swell by Edward Hopper}

Dear Readers,

This is another one of Bob’s poems that I’ve read countless times. Originally published at poets.org, it was one of the early poems that hooked me to his voice which wanders constantly without forgetting where’s home. The seamlessness of his large movements is spell-binding here. This was also when I started realizing that Bob puts rivers in most of his poems, and I love that. And really, “why does lyric poetry exist?” A question worth pursuing forever and ever. I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments.

May we be river-like,

Karan

P.S. Here’s my most favorite Edith Piaf song: Hymne à l’amour

(Piaf wrote the lyrics to this song in 1949, shortly after she received the tragic news that the love of her life, Marcel Cerdan (the world middle-weight boxing champion at the time), had died in a plane crash while en route from Paris to New York to reunite with her during her concert tour in the United States.)

More than whispers, less than rumors

by Bob Hicok

The river is high. I'd love to smoke pot 
with the river. I'd love it if rain 
sat at my table and told me what it's like 
to lick Edith Piaf's grave. I go along thinking 
I'm separate from trash day 
and the weird hairdo my cat wakes up with 
but I am of the avalanche 
as much as I am its tambourine. 
The river is crashing against my sleep 
like it took applause apart and put it back together 
as a riot of wet mouths 
adoring my ears, is over my head
when it explains string theory 
and affection to me, 
when it tells me to be the code breaker, 
not the code. What does that mean? 
Why does lyric poetry exist?
When will water open its mouth 
and tell us how to be clouds, how to rise
and morph and die and flourish and be reborn
all at the same time, all without caring
if we have food in our teeth or teeth in our eyes
or hair in our soup or a piano in our pockets,
just play the damned tune. The river is bipolar 
but has flushed its meds, I'm dead 
but someone has to finish all the cheese 
in the fridge, we're a failed species
if suction cups are important, if intelligence
isn't graded on a curve, 
but if desperation counts, if thunderstorms 
are the noise in our heads given a hall pass 
and rivers swell because orchestras 
aren't always there when we need them, well then, 
I still don't know a thing.

This poem is from Red Rover Red Rover by Bob Hicok, published by Copper Canyon Press, 2021

Buy the collection here!