Classic and Contemporary Poetry: Explained

Bob Hicok’s "Documentary Art" is a meditation on memory, performance, and the contradictions of public figures, using Richard Nixon’s television appearance on The Jack Paar Program as a lens through which to explore both historical perception and personal recollection. The poem moves fluidly between observation and reflection, blending nostalgia with irony, and ultimately suggesting that even the most public moments are defined by private insecurities and failures.

The poem’s title, "Documentary Art," signals its interest in the way reality is shaped and framed, much like a documentary reconstructs truth through selection and presentation. By recalling Nixon’s performance decades later—"I watched Richard Nixon play piano for Jack Paar forty years ago last night."—the speaker engages in a kind of secondhand documentary, layering his memory over an already mediated event. The phrase "forty years ago last night" establishes the poem’s temporal dislocation, where past and present blur, and the act of remembering becomes its own kind of performance.

Jack Paar, the host, is described in fluid, almost surreal terms: "Jack Paar smiled often and moved like an octopus, the slow grace of one fluid passing through another." The comparison of Paar to an octopus emphasizes his adaptability, his ability to navigate conversations with ease, but also suggests something alien, slippery, difficult to pin down. The description captures how television personalities must exude an effortless charm, constantly adjusting to the shifting dynamics of their guests.

The set design, seemingly simple, is given a dreamlike quality: "curtains behind them to suggest a window and mountains or an ocean beyond the curtain the eye could touch if the curtains opened their mouth." The curtains become more than mere props; they represent the illusion of depth, the suggestion of a world beyond the stage that remains inaccessible. This metaphor underscores the artificiality of television—the way it simulates intimacy while ultimately keeping its audience at a distance.

Nixon, in contrast to Paar, is described as "relaxed and spastic simultaneously." This paradox captures the essential contradiction of Nixon’s public persona—a man always trying to appear at ease but never quite succeeding. His laughter, compared to "a dog wagging its tail," reinforces this unease. It is an involuntary reflex, a signal of nervousness rather than genuine amusement. Nixon’s discomfort in public settings has been well-documented, and Hicok distills that awkwardness into a single, canine image.

The moment Nixon moves to the piano is the poem’s emotional and thematic center. The speaker notes that Nixon played a piece he had written himself, describing it as "brutally romantic, lush like drowning can be lush." The phrase "brutally romantic" suggests an excess of emotion, a kind of sentimentality that is overcompensating for something—perhaps Nixon’s own inadequacies or his need for validation. The "lushness" of the music, likened to drowning, conveys both beauty and suffocation, a mix of grandeur and impending failure.

Hicok then gives a psychological reading of Nixon’s performance: "While his right hand was thinking his left hand watched. Reverse the same. Only at the end did they work together, a studied moment of detente between the halves of his brain." This fragmented coordination mirrors Nixon’s political and personal struggles—the divided mind, the constant negotiation between impulses, the attempt to orchestrate control. The use of "detente," a term associated with Cold War diplomacy, is particularly clever, equating Nixon’s own internal conflicts with the geopolitical tensions he would later navigate as president.

Following Nixon’s performance, the show resumes its usual structure, shifting focus to "Jack Paar in non–Richard Nixon moments." The phrase itself is telling—Nixon’s presence is an interruption, an aberration from the expected. Paar’s other segments—his interactions with elephants in Kenya, his poetic engagement with waves—contrast sharply with Nixon’s rigid, uncomfortable presence at the piano. The shift suggests how quickly television moves on, how easily individuals are absorbed and discarded by the medium.

Yet the speaker remains fixated on Nixon’s effort: "I kept thinking of Richard Nixon working hard to make the air sound beautiful and the bravery of his failure." There is an unexpected tenderness in this line. Nixon, often seen as a symbol of corruption and paranoia, is instead portrayed as a man striving for something beyond his reach. The phrase "the bravery of his failure" reframes his awkwardness not as a weakness but as a kind of tragic persistence. His attempt to create beauty—however flawed—becomes almost noble in retrospect.

The final image of the poem is both humorous and poignant: "To inhabit its spirit go to the kitchen, put the forlorn spoons in a bag and shake them while biting your lip hard as you might if the other kids wouldn’t let you be president." This closing instruction invites the reader to physically recreate Nixon’s experience—not through music but through the clatter of spoons, an ersatz version of his failed artistry. The phrase "forlorn spoons" gives the objects an emotional weight, as if they, too, carry the burden of unfulfilled ambition. The biting of the lip evokes both frustration and restraint, a gesture of suppressed longing. The final line—"if the other kids wouldn’t let you be president."—casts Nixon as a perpetual outsider, the kid never quite accepted, never quite cool enough, always trying too hard. It suggests that his entire political career may have been driven by a deep, childhood-rooted need to prove himself, to finally belong.

Hicok’s "Documentary Art" is ultimately about how history is filtered through memory, how public figures are reduced to a series of awkward moments, and how failure—especially when performed in public—can take on an almost heroic quality. The poem does not seek to redeem Nixon, nor does it outright mock him; rather, it presents him as a deeply human figure, someone striving for grace but always just out of step with it. By framing Nixon’s piano performance as an act of vulnerability rather than mere spectacle, Hicok challenges us to reconsider the ways in which we remember and judge those who live their lives on display.

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