Read To Me Some Poem
by Maryli Tiemann and Alice Persons, Editors
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by William Kloefkorn, poet laureate of Nebraska
In these compelling poems the reader travels more with history than through it. Patrick Hicks takes us to many places, among them Barcelona, Berlin, and Belfast, as he reflects upon the mystery of existence, of what it means to be alive where the "poisonous ghosts of history" challenge and haunt us. I admire the variety of subjects that the poems reflect — regret and wonder, concern and disdain, compassion and hope. The voice in these poems is honest and recognizable. It wants what most of us want — to find meaningful identification with the past no less than the present. Carrying history on his back like a knapsack, and aware of the vagaries of chance, Hicks looks to what, for him, finally matters: one person loving another.
by David Allan Evans, poet laureate of South Dakota
These poems come out of real, actual, lived experiences, a rare thing these days. Hicks seems to have absorbed the work of some of the best poets in that same vein in the past half century: Theodore Roethke, Robinson Jeffers, James Dickey, Seamus Heaney, to name a few. What I find remarkable about Hicks' poems in this collection is that they can simultaneously accommodate not only personal but national, international, and even evolutionary phenomena. Hicks is the kind of poet I go for: straight-forward, clear, tough-minded, knowledgeable, accessible, memorable. He has experienced much in his young life; he has taken the time to inform himself on the facts of history and science; and he writes with insight, power, and passion.
Carrying Grandpa
The time will come when I approach the airport,
place him in my arms, and carry him to Aghalee.
There, the bones of my ancestors are clasped beneath
the doubly-narrated soil of County Antrim.
Like an ashen genie, he will be poured into a bronze lamp,
his memories immolated, and his strong woodworking hands
will become merely a fine powder--
blown to the floor like gray sawdust.
The family estate, damaged after the war,
forced him from Northern Ireland to Canada--
a dingy harbor in Montreal,
gangplank to a new life--
all of his possessions and children
huddled lonely against the cold hull of a ship,
the fog concealed the city,
and stayed for years.
Then forward, through the aging of my mother,
through the times he carried me on proud shoulders,
until that moment I boarded a plane for Belfast.
I walked the streets of his memory,
made them my own, and listened
to the babbling Janus face of history.
I will carry him as he once carried me.
After his ashes clasp the soil
that he missed so much,
I will do my fleeting work.
until a child carries me to Aghalee.
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