
Michael Hicks
MICHAEL HICKS {www.michaelhicks.org} is a Professor of Music at Brigham Young University. A former editor of the journal American Music (2007–2010), he is also the author of five books in University of Illinois Press’s Music in American Life series, including The Mormon Tabernacle Choir: A Biography (2015). His poetry has appeared in various Mormon journals and in anthologies such as New Poets of the American West (2010), and Fire in the Pasture (2011).
Understudies for Angels Megan Sanborn Jones. Contemporary Mormon Pageantry: Seeking After the Dead
Articles/Essays – Volume 52, No. 2
Notes on Brigham Young’s Aesthetics
Articles/Essays – Volume 16, No. 4
“If there is anything virtuous, lovely . . . we seek after these things.” Granted. But loveliness by what criteria? We in the Church often presume a common aesthetic; or when conflicts in judgment arise—whether…
Read morePoetic Borrowing in Early Mormonism
Articles/Essays – Volume 18, No. 1
The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, it seems, has had little ^ use for poetry that cannot be sung. The chief place of verse has always been the hymnal, and not without reason:…
Read moreJoseph Smith, Sr., Dreams of His Namesake
Articles/Essays – Volume 19, No. 1
Vermont, Autumn 1805
And the boy, the milky angel said,
will be like the wild rain
that shatters the crops and spins the brittle stalks
end upon end.
Rebaptism: A Manual
Articles/Essays – Volume 19, No. 1
When the first letter comes,
a quiet verdict,
water sheds its sense:
coastlines stiffen,
The Statue of Brigham Young at South Temple and Main, Salt Lake City
Articles/Essays – Volume 28, No. 3
The cupping hand cradles the winds
that whir like crickets
beneath the swoop of traffic lamps.
The legs like stumps of pillars
Family Tree
Articles/Essays – Volume 38, No. 4
Adam: The wind hissed in the branches,
green tongues
whispering
a secret I could
never peel open.
Faith Healing
Articles/Essays – Volume 38, No. 4
And there she was, Kathryn Kuhlman* strolling the stage at the Civic,
parting a sea of applause, her gown like an angel that got away,
so pure it might have been empty but for the Holy Ghost preening
in her body as she paced the floral proscenium, lifting her hands
in a sign language I knew only God understood.