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Classic and Contemporary Poetry: Explained

ODYSSEY, by                 Poet's Biography

Bob Hicok’s "Odyssey" is a quiet, introspective meditation on wandering, belonging, and the search for meaning within the mundane. The title, evoking Homer’s Odyssey, suggests a journey, but rather than an epic of grand adventures, the poem charts an internal odyssey—one rooted in solitude, in the act of sitting, watching, listening, and waiting for the world to reveal something. The speaker’s movements through his own yard become a metaphor for the larger uncertainties of existence, the struggle to find a place where one truly fits.

The opening line establishes the theme of movement: “I sat in different places with different winds.” This is not a journey of great distances, but of shifting perspectives, each one marked by the wind—a presence that both moves through the world and reshapes the speaker’s experience of it. The specificity of “the top of the drive where the blue weeds grow” grounds the scene in the everyday, but also hints at a kind of untamed beauty, an unnoticed corner where something vibrant persists. The next setting—the “bench with hammering”—introduces an unseen construction, “the sound of a house I couldn’t see being built in the woods, child of a green womb.” The house, unborn and hidden within nature’s embrace, mirrors the speaker’s own search for a place that feels like home. The “green womb” suggests both protection and creation, reinforcing the tension between what is yet to be built and what is already present.

Then, a moment of existential uncertainty: “There might not be a spot that wants me, I could wander my yard and never fit this grass, the fence of rusted holes.” This articulation of displacement turns the yard—supposedly a familiar, personal space—into something indifferent, even resistant. The fence, with its “rusted holes,” no longer functions as a boundary; it is something broken, unfinished. The phrase “never fit this grass” evokes an almost childlike loneliness, as if the speaker senses that even the landscape refuses to embrace him.

The next passage brings a shift from contemplation to tactile engagement: “Beside the tongue of a shovel left out overnight, I lay my head, my fingers four more dreams a daddy longlegs touched in a blind world.” This image merges the human with the insect, the tool with the organic. The “tongue of a shovel” suggests both speech and consumption—an object designed to dig, to break the ground, but now silent, abandoned. The “daddy longlegs” moving blindly over the speaker’s fingers reinforces a theme of uncertainty—an exploration of the world through touch, through instinct rather than vision.

The next image is particularly evocative: “There’s that longer leg that’s not a leg, it’s a telegram sent out before the progress of a shadow.” The reference to a “telegram” signals communication, an attempt to reach something beyond oneself. Yet, the “progress of a shadow” suggests an inevitable passage of time, a movement that cannot be stopped. There is an interplay here between the urgent need to connect and the slow, indifferent unfolding of life.

The speaker then shifts back to the external world, describing rain as it “crossed my neighbor’s field at the speed of a million mouths per second kissing corn.” This is one of the most stunning moments in the poem, transforming the rain into something sensual, even intimate. The description turns an everyday weather event into an act of tenderness, suggesting that nature, in its quiet way, is filled with longing and connection.

Then, another moment of estrangement: “Just before my house, it stopped, then started on the other side of my life with a sound like the valley being told to hush.” The rain, which seemed to touch everything else, bypasses the speaker’s home, reinforcing his sense of detachment. The “hush” suggests a quieting, an erasure—something momentarily being held back, as if even the valley itself must pause before resuming.

The final section introduces an act of senseless destruction: “At the mailbox, I saw the mailbox had been beaten again, I sat, looked down the road at the faller, loaves of metal bread.” The mailbox, repeatedly vandalized, becomes another symbol of wear and repetition—a thing meant to receive, now reduced to a crumpled shell. The comparison to “loaves of metal bread” is striking, linking nourishment with damage. Bread, traditionally associated with sustenance, is now twisted into something lifeless, bent out of shape.

The act of violence extends beyond the mailbox: “This is a ritual like dinner, like wanting to know the secret the bat tells the hands of the boy who leans out of a car, lit by radio glow and a cigarette.” This passage captures the cyclical nature of aggression, of boys growing into men who continue to destroy. The phrase “the secret the bat tells the hands” makes the violence seem almost fated, passed down as a coded message that must be enacted.

Then comes one of the most chilling lines in the poem: “In some, the refrain of blood is swing away.” The use of “refrain” suggests repetition, a chorus of violence echoing through certain lives. The bat-wielding boy does not act in isolation—he is part of a larger rhythm, a legacy of destruction.

Hicok then provides a devastating image of human restlessness: “If you put your ear to such a person, you hear the ocean saying let me out.” This line suggests that beneath aggression lies something deeper—an unfulfilled longing, a desire to escape. The “ocean” within these individuals is trapped, pressing against the confines of their existence, desperate for release.

The closing lines return to the speaker’s inertia: “Some days, it takes me a year to get the mail, to return home with proof that we owe.” The hyperbole here expresses the weight of existence—how even small tasks can feel endless, how life is often reduced to transactions, to reminders of debt and obligation.

The final note is both humorous and poignant: “There’s a stick I’ve had my eye on, I’ll ask tomorrow if it’s ever considered being thrown.” This small, almost absurd gesture—asking a stick if it wants to be thrown—captures the speaker’s hesitancy, his detachment from action. He sees potential movement but delays it, reinforcing the theme of inertia that runs through the poem.

Hicok’s "Odyssey" is a quiet epic, a journey through small distances that feel immense. The speaker drifts through landscapes of uncertainty, violence, and longing, searching for meaning in the smallest details. The poem suggests that an odyssey does not have to span great oceans or mythical lands—sometimes, it is simply the act of moving through the spaces we already inhabit, waiting for something to tell us where we belong.


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