John
Hicks
John Hicks was drafted into the Army in 1968; had
infantry training in California; went to Engineering Officer Candidate School
in Virginia; and had additional training in Maryland and D.C. Was
assigned in in Bangkok for nearly three years until the Vietnam War ended.
The Pose
Trooper Meditating Beside a Grave
Winslow Homer, ca. 1865, Oil on Canvas
The Joslyn Art Museum, Omaha, Nebraska
What the artist sees: The living and the dead, a portrait
in gray and brown and black; a Union private in a forest,
the grave before him a simple prop. The soldier
wears a cavalry dress uniform in the casual pose
of someone who wasn’t there. Holds as if
for Mister Brady—where you have to stand,
and wait for the impact, the slow push
of light into darkness. Cavalry cannot live
among trees. Caught among these pines,
they would have been easy targets.
Against the light, even sound dies.
In this small frame, board crosses mark
where three fell. This large one facing the private,
leans away from him. His eyes, shaded by his cap,
are locked as though on a name that paint denies us.
Vietnam Veterans Memorial
Washington, DC
I’m at The Wall in the gray and brown
of a Washington winter, looking for a name.
Doug and I were draftees; met in Infantry Basic.
Youngest in my squad, at first you struggled. I sometimes
carried your pack, others your rifle and gear. But you hung on;
built up; found your feet; became one of us.
In March, after four months of training, you were ordered
to Viet Nam. I went to Virginia for Engineering School.
“Luck of the draw,” you said. I saw you again.
You stared out from the black and white of Life Magazine.
Hamburger Hill. 23 May 1969. Still eighteen. Now all this
is locked in black granite with those who fell with you.
I kneel to touch your name.
The pose of someone who wasn’t there.
Trooper Meditating Beside a Grave
Winslow Homer, ca. 1865, Oil on Canvas
The Joslyn Art Museum, Omaha, Nebraska
What the artist sees: The living and the dead, a portrait
in gray and brown and black; a Union private in a forest,
the grave before him a simple prop. The soldier
wears a cavalry dress uniform in the casual pose
of someone who wasn’t there. Holds as if
for Mister Brady—where you have to stand,
and wait for the impact, the slow push
of light into darkness. Cavalry cannot live
among trees. Caught among these pines,
they would have been easy targets.
Against the light, even sound dies.
In this small frame, board crosses mark
where three fell. This large one facing the private,
leans away from him. His eyes, shaded by his cap,
are locked as though on a name that paint denies us.
Vietnam Veterans Memorial
Washington, DC
I’m at The Wall in the gray and brown
of a Washington winter, looking for a name.
Doug and I were draftees; met in Infantry Basic.
Youngest in my squad, at first you struggled. I sometimes
carried your pack, others your rifle and gear. But you hung on;
built up; found your feet; became one of us.
In March, after four months of training, you were ordered
to Viet Nam. I went to Virginia for Engineering School.
“Luck of the draw,” you said. I saw you again.
You stared out from the black and white of Life Magazine.
Hamburger Hill. 23 May 1969. Still eighteen. Now all this
is locked in black granite with those who fell with you.
I kneel to touch your name.
The pose of someone who wasn’t there.
For Doug Sommer
The Grindstone
He clattered up Saturday while we cousins were at breakfast,
the blue Cushman skirling exhaust and determination
that heaved to a stop at the kitchen door, the wooden crutch
sentinel beside him. Grandma said he’d been in the Great War.
The single polished boot took attention to the pin-folded cloth
that sealed off the story of the leg he left in France. He never spoke.
But, sometimes as he chopped at weeds in his short, angry strokes,
he grunted through his teeth at something in the ground.
He worked steadily—his blue bandana and water from the hose
his only pause—till Grandma came out; had him stop for the day,
to put the tools away and come collect his pay. He removed his hat
when he knocked at the door, a deference of pale skin that topped his forehead.
We watched him through the windows before he started work,
sharpening the tools in the garden shed. Hoe, shovel, sickle screamed in sparks,
lighting his face as he fed them to the spinning grindstone,
turning them into shiny cutting edges.
He couldn’t have made much money, enough for gas, and for the cork-stoppered pint
that one early morning I saw slip from his jacket as he laid it
on the ground beside the bed of poppies he always tended first.
He weeded them by hand, getting down on his knee. And when
he finished, climbed hand over hand the mast of his crutch until he stood erect—
pausing for a moment before picking up the tools, and starting to work.
He clattered up Saturday while we cousins were at breakfast,
the blue Cushman skirling exhaust and determination
that heaved to a stop at the kitchen door, the wooden crutch
sentinel beside him. Grandma said he’d been in the Great War.
The single polished boot took attention to the pin-folded cloth
that sealed off the story of the leg he left in France. He never spoke.
But, sometimes as he chopped at weeds in his short, angry strokes,
he grunted through his teeth at something in the ground.
He worked steadily—his blue bandana and water from the hose
his only pause—till Grandma came out; had him stop for the day,
to put the tools away and come collect his pay. He removed his hat
when he knocked at the door, a deference of pale skin that topped his forehead.
We watched him through the windows before he started work,
sharpening the tools in the garden shed. Hoe, shovel, sickle screamed in sparks,
lighting his face as he fed them to the spinning grindstone,
turning them into shiny cutting edges.
He couldn’t have made much money, enough for gas, and for the cork-stoppered pint
that one early morning I saw slip from his jacket as he laid it
on the ground beside the bed of poppies he always tended first.
He weeded them by hand, getting down on his knee. And when
he finished, climbed hand over hand the mast of his crutch until he stood erect—
pausing for a moment before picking up the tools, and starting to work.
Unless You Have Lived, You Cannot Die
Patina cracked and veined, silvered by tropic sun, my sampan
navigates through the labyrinth of Thonburi’s canals.
I get by each day selling produce
to people living on the waterways near the Buddhist temple.
Their houses and docks sit in ash-gray banyan shadows.
At day’s end, I retreat to my own dock. It’s not hiding.
That I avoid my neighbors is perhaps a sort of hiding.
Each morning’s darkness embraces as I ease the sampan
through pre-dawn cool, afloat on rippled shadows
that pave the way to buy from wholesalers on Khlong Dan Canal—
behind the incense clouded pillars of the Chinese temple—
to buy fruit for delivery. I don’t haggle prices for the produce.
To sell my customers star fruit, mangoes, papayas, and limes,
I layer them in baskets with banana leaves for shade,
then push off to houses near the Buddhist temple.
I like the rhythmic paddle strokes that slide the sampan
through still-dark waters of early morning canals
as sun pushes in the east, shortening the shadows.
In the War, my brother was a soldier, a radio shadow,
in the clandestine warfare that invaders produce.
I lived withdrawn in a house at the end of my canal,
while he reported troop movements, and hid
from the Japanese, moving at night by boat.
He sometimes brought me food when he visited our temple.
Today, I gave a ride to a monk from Wat Paknam.
He could see my face was trouble-shadowed.
I wish I was still a monk, I said as he stepped into my craft.
I miss the security of that life and the calm it produced.
He told me, The temple is no place to hide,
no place to let your days slip by like these canal waters.
Now my brother owns a water taxi for people on the canals.
They board it from their docks, or use the one at our temple.
He asked me to join his business; I could not hide,
replied, I can only float in shadows.
He said, How can you live on your unsold produce?
I know he doesn’t like it, this getting by—this drifting.
I cannot change, I told the monk from canal temple
as he rose to leave the sampan. A life hidden in shadow,
he responded, does not respect the one you are given.
Patina cracked and veined, silvered by tropic sun, my sampan
navigates through the labyrinth of Thonburi’s canals.
I get by each day selling produce
to people living on the waterways near the Buddhist temple.
Their houses and docks sit in ash-gray banyan shadows.
At day’s end, I retreat to my own dock. It’s not hiding.
That I avoid my neighbors is perhaps a sort of hiding.
Each morning’s darkness embraces as I ease the sampan
through pre-dawn cool, afloat on rippled shadows
that pave the way to buy from wholesalers on Khlong Dan Canal—
behind the incense clouded pillars of the Chinese temple—
to buy fruit for delivery. I don’t haggle prices for the produce.
To sell my customers star fruit, mangoes, papayas, and limes,
I layer them in baskets with banana leaves for shade,
then push off to houses near the Buddhist temple.
I like the rhythmic paddle strokes that slide the sampan
through still-dark waters of early morning canals
as sun pushes in the east, shortening the shadows.
In the War, my brother was a soldier, a radio shadow,
in the clandestine warfare that invaders produce.
I lived withdrawn in a house at the end of my canal,
while he reported troop movements, and hid
from the Japanese, moving at night by boat.
He sometimes brought me food when he visited our temple.
Today, I gave a ride to a monk from Wat Paknam.
He could see my face was trouble-shadowed.
I wish I was still a monk, I said as he stepped into my craft.
I miss the security of that life and the calm it produced.
He told me, The temple is no place to hide,
no place to let your days slip by like these canal waters.
Now my brother owns a water taxi for people on the canals.
They board it from their docks, or use the one at our temple.
He asked me to join his business; I could not hide,
replied, I can only float in shadows.
He said, How can you live on your unsold produce?
I know he doesn’t like it, this getting by—this drifting.
I cannot change, I told the monk from canal temple
as he rose to leave the sampan. A life hidden in shadow,
he responded, does not respect the one you are given.
Family
When you graduated, no one
hired draft bait. You lived at home.
Waited for the hungry nation’s letter.
Collected in October. Bus
full of strangers. One, his pockets
full of candy. Another, cigarettes.
No one shared. Guy behind you
was reading Psychology Today.
Now, after four months of training,
you’re trying to use every minute
of this twelve-hour pass slipping
through your fingers. Last freedom
before new orders. Fog cold.
Can’t pull your collar close enough.
Head-down walking. The light without edges.
Can’t see the city through suffocating gray.
No idea how far from the Greyhound depot.
Looking for a place that won’t shun a soldier.
To be among civilians a few hours. But
you’ve wandered into a warehouse district.
The Draft, a law for world war—now part
of the country’s character—has sent you
to learn automatic weapons and explosives;
to build strength to march with heavy packs;
equipment, and ammunition; to carry
an injured comrade out of harm’s way;
to dress wounds; to dig for shelter in the dirt.
It’s taken you for your country’s hardest work.
At the bus depot you bought a San Francisco Chronicle.
First newspaper in four months, now limp in the fog.
Training’s over for your platoon. No longer strangers
uncertain about each other or the Army.
Comrades waiting for orders:
Vietnam on everyone’s mind.
Among steel and concrete buildings, a single light
caved in mist above a store front’s faded letters,
EAT.
Looks like a place out of Jack London. A place
for bearded men in pea jackets, wool caps, heavy boots.
And cheap enough for a $100-a-month Army private.
Brass door handle’s wet, cold. Thumb the latch. Push.
Almost empty. Air heavy with grease.
Cook, with stained apron and tattooed arms,
has spread the classifieds on a table.
Doesn’t look up. Radiator clicks by the door;
coffee urn grumbles. Murmured slap of cards
from the far end of the counter. Her uniform
is faded pink; hair in a bun, pencil stuck in it.
You’re too late for breakfast, she declares.
We got pie and coffee.
Take the seat by the register.
The cup is heavy china; kind that holds blistering heat.
Slip your fingers around it; one through the handle.
She returns to the game. Takes her cards
from her apron pocket. Other players
are pink-faced—gray hair slicked back on one,
fluffy gray ring above the other’s ears.
Black industrial shoes with gym socks.
Their backs toward me.
Students are protesting. San Francisco
wants to build the world’s tallest building.
Nixon has a plan. Crossword, horoscope,
Goren on Bridge, Ask Abby, sports, want ads.
Pages of another world.
Pay for the coffee. Leave the paper.
Fog’s unchanged. Pull your neck
into your collar. Back to the bus depot.
Back to your platoon. Back to wait for orders.
Unspoken: You’ll be split up.
When you graduated, no one
hired draft bait. You lived at home.
Waited for the hungry nation’s letter.
Collected in October. Bus
full of strangers. One, his pockets
full of candy. Another, cigarettes.
No one shared. Guy behind you
was reading Psychology Today.
Now, after four months of training,
you’re trying to use every minute
of this twelve-hour pass slipping
through your fingers. Last freedom
before new orders. Fog cold.
Can’t pull your collar close enough.
Head-down walking. The light without edges.
Can’t see the city through suffocating gray.
No idea how far from the Greyhound depot.
Looking for a place that won’t shun a soldier.
To be among civilians a few hours. But
you’ve wandered into a warehouse district.
The Draft, a law for world war—now part
of the country’s character—has sent you
to learn automatic weapons and explosives;
to build strength to march with heavy packs;
equipment, and ammunition; to carry
an injured comrade out of harm’s way;
to dress wounds; to dig for shelter in the dirt.
It’s taken you for your country’s hardest work.
At the bus depot you bought a San Francisco Chronicle.
First newspaper in four months, now limp in the fog.
Training’s over for your platoon. No longer strangers
uncertain about each other or the Army.
Comrades waiting for orders:
Vietnam on everyone’s mind.
Among steel and concrete buildings, a single light
caved in mist above a store front’s faded letters,
EAT.
Looks like a place out of Jack London. A place
for bearded men in pea jackets, wool caps, heavy boots.
And cheap enough for a $100-a-month Army private.
Brass door handle’s wet, cold. Thumb the latch. Push.
Almost empty. Air heavy with grease.
Cook, with stained apron and tattooed arms,
has spread the classifieds on a table.
Doesn’t look up. Radiator clicks by the door;
coffee urn grumbles. Murmured slap of cards
from the far end of the counter. Her uniform
is faded pink; hair in a bun, pencil stuck in it.
You’re too late for breakfast, she declares.
We got pie and coffee.
Take the seat by the register.
The cup is heavy china; kind that holds blistering heat.
Slip your fingers around it; one through the handle.
She returns to the game. Takes her cards
from her apron pocket. Other players
are pink-faced—gray hair slicked back on one,
fluffy gray ring above the other’s ears.
Black industrial shoes with gym socks.
Their backs toward me.
Students are protesting. San Francisco
wants to build the world’s tallest building.
Nixon has a plan. Crossword, horoscope,
Goren on Bridge, Ask Abby, sports, want ads.
Pages of another world.
Pay for the coffee. Leave the paper.
Fog’s unchanged. Pull your neck
into your collar. Back to the bus depot.
Back to your platoon. Back to wait for orders.
Unspoken: You’ll be split up.
The First Minute
In the eleventh hour of its eleventh day,
In the eleventh month of the year,
When they lifted the thunder,
And the echoes rolled away—
In the first minute,
birds.
In the eleventh hour of its eleventh day,
In the eleventh month of the year,
When they lifted the thunder,
And the echoes rolled away—
In the first minute,
birds.
Point Lobos
Fog pushes in from the Pacific,
spirals treetops above us,
pines and cedars.
Silent.
Heavy in the way of ocean air.
Clings to branches;
runs their length
to green tips collecting
until overburdened,
drops random taps on the path.
Haven’t seen you since I was a boy—
since weekends at your place. We
didn’t talk much. When you spoke,
it was to point out things in nature.
Mostly, I explored sagebrush country
with canteen and sandwich
in the valley behind your house.
You left when your business failed.
Went somewhere up north.
Now you’re here,
holding out a slender thread:
comparing your World War I service
to my overseas orders—
family news you heard somehow.
I think of a man I watched
driving a spike with a hammer
down the street from the house;
how sound didn’t match impact.
Neither of us can carry conversations:
still have that in common. You say,
There’s something I’d like you to see,
and you drive us to Point Lobos.
We walk the trees, fog tapping our path.
Poets Note: “The Pose” and “The Grindstone” were published in Wilderness House Literary Review in 2016. They reflect personal experience.
“Unless You Have Lived You Cannot Die” and “Family” were published in Synchronized Chaos in 2021. I knew the brother described in the sestina; “Family” is my own experience.
“The First Minute” was posted on my Facebook page in 2019 for the week after Veterans Day.
“Point Lobos” is unpublished and reflects my own experience.
Fog pushes in from the Pacific,
spirals treetops above us,
pines and cedars.
Silent.
Heavy in the way of ocean air.
Clings to branches;
runs their length
to green tips collecting
until overburdened,
drops random taps on the path.
Haven’t seen you since I was a boy—
since weekends at your place. We
didn’t talk much. When you spoke,
it was to point out things in nature.
Mostly, I explored sagebrush country
with canteen and sandwich
in the valley behind your house.
You left when your business failed.
Went somewhere up north.
Now you’re here,
holding out a slender thread:
comparing your World War I service
to my overseas orders—
family news you heard somehow.
I think of a man I watched
driving a spike with a hammer
down the street from the house;
how sound didn’t match impact.
Neither of us can carry conversations:
still have that in common. You say,
There’s something I’d like you to see,
and you drive us to Point Lobos.
We walk the trees, fog tapping our path.
Poets Note: “The Pose” and “The Grindstone” were published in Wilderness House Literary Review in 2016. They reflect personal experience.
“Unless You Have Lived You Cannot Die” and “Family” were published in Synchronized Chaos in 2021. I knew the brother described in the sestina; “Family” is my own experience.
“The First Minute” was posted on my Facebook page in 2019 for the week after Veterans Day.
“Point Lobos” is unpublished and reflects my own experience.
Powerful, moving and skillfully written. All the details in "Family" took me right to that time. "Looking for a place that won't shun soldiers." Very fine writing.
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