Classic and Contemporary Poetry: Explained

Bob Hicok’s "Love Song" is an exploration of miscommunication, longing, and the unexpected beauty of language when it is only partially understood. The poem plays with the dissonance between what the speaker hears and what is actually being said, finding in that gap a kind of romantic and emotional resonance. Through humor, absurdity, and the quiet ache of solitude, Hicok turns misunderstanding into a form of engagement, suggesting that even when we do not fully comprehend something, we can still be moved by it.

The poem begins with a straightforward admission: “I am misunderstanding a song / in Spanish.” This blunt statement sets the tone—misinterpretation is not a failure but the very foundation of the poem. The speaker clarifies that it is the song that is in Spanish, not his confusion, a distinction that playfully establishes his willingness to embrace his linguistic limitations. He even expresses a desire to extend this experience: “one day / I hope to be confused / in many tongues, / to botch my days / with polyglot savoir-faire.” The phrase “polyglot savoir-faire” is itself a humorous contradiction—savoir-faire implies smooth competence, while botching suggests the opposite. The speaker’s aspiration is not to master languages but to misinterpret them elegantly, to make a kind of art out of getting things wrong.

From here, the poem shifts into the specific, surreal imagery that Hicok so often employs. “On my CD he’s kissing her / under a peanut butter sky.” This peculiar and childlike metaphor—peanut butter sky—emphasizes the playful, even nonsensical, nature of the speaker’s misunderstanding. Whether this phrase is a misheard lyric or an invention of his own mind is unclear, but that ambiguity is precisely the point. He is not concerned with accuracy; he is concerned with the feeling the song evokes.

The poem takes a more exaggerated turn with the next image: “He’s already asked the sea / for permission to marry / her pubic hair.” This absurd proposition—simultaneously grandiose and intimate—continues the theme of misinterpretation leading to unexpected poetry. The lover’s gesture is hyperbolic, an act of devotion so dramatic that it requires the sea’s approval, yet its focus (pubic hair) undercuts the loftiness with something mundane and physical. Whether this is what the lyrics actually say or another layer of misunderstanding is irrelevant; what matters is the extravagant intensity of love as the speaker imagines it.

The sea’s response adds another level of humor and surrealism: “The sea said first / you must solve / simultaneously / two hundred / quadratic equations, / proving true lovers / paid attention during algebra.” This demand is as impossible as it is ridiculous. Love, often associated with spontaneity and passion, is here reduced to a mathematical test. The idea that romance requires competence in algebra mocks both the formal education system and the notion that love follows logic. Yet there is also a grain of truth in this—love does, in a sense, demand patience, precision, and the ability to solve complex problems together. The sea, like love, has its own inscrutable conditions.

The speaker then steps back from the specifics of the song to reflect on his relationship with language itself: “I have no idea / what these sounds mean / but I’ve never asked / a dictionary to dance.” This is a crucial turning point in the poem. The speaker acknowledges his ignorance but refuses to see it as a problem. The phrase “never asked a dictionary to dance” suggests that language, for him, is not about exactness but about movement, music, and engagement. He does not turn to translation to bridge the gap; he simply allows the sound of the words to carry him.

The next lines reinforce this surrender to sensation: “If the guitars / invited me to join the army / I’d salute.” The speaker is so moved by the music’s emotional pull that he would follow it blindly, regardless of what it actually commands. This moment highlights the power of rhythm and melody over literal meaning—how the feeling of a song can transcend linguistic barriers.

Then, the poem returns to more bizarrely poetic misinterpretations: “The singer says, from afar / I’ve admired the jumping jacks / of your navel, I promise / to make you salads / the rest of your days.” The phrase “jumping jacks / of your navel” is a wonderfully strange image—whether it refers to the movement of the body, a pulse, or something entirely invented is unclear. The promise “to make you salads / the rest of your days” turns love into an act of caretaking, nourishment, and quiet devotion. This contrast between the abstract and the domestic reflects the way love songs often mix high romance with everyday tenderness.

The final lines reveal the true emotional weight of the poem: “Who hasn’t / been brought to tears / by vegetables / or wouldn’t be by the music / of these words, / which sound like you / calling me on the first / of too many / nights alone.” Here, all the humor and playfulness culminate in loneliness. The “vegetables” and the “music of these words”—both initially lighthearted—become unexpectedly poignant. The misheard lyrics, the strange declarations of love, the poetic absurdity—all of it reminds the speaker of someone who is absent. The phrase “the first / of too many / nights alone” lands like a quiet gut-punch, transforming the speaker’s joyful surrender to confusion into an admission of solitude.

Hicok’s "Love Song" is ultimately about the ways we try to connect—with language, with music, with others—even when we fail to fully understand. The poem revels in the beauty of misinterpretation, suggesting that sometimes, the wrong meaning is just as meaningful as the right one. Through humor, surreal imagery, and a gradual build toward loneliness, Hicok captures the experience of longing—not just for clarity, but for the kind of presence that makes all misunderstandings irrelevant.

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