Summer Job
“The trouble with intellectuals,” Manny, my boss,
once told me, “is that they don’t know nothing
till they can explain it to themselves. A guy like that,”
he said, “he gets to middle age—and by the way,
he gets there late; he’s trying to be a boy until
he’s forty, forty-five, and then you give him five
more years until that craziness peters out, and now
he’s almost fifty—a guy like that at last explains
to himself that life is made of time, that time
is what it’s all about. Aha! he says. And then
he either blows his brains out, gets religion,
or settles down to some major-league depression.
Make yourself useful. Hand me that three-eights
torque wrench—no, you moron, the other one.”
“A few days after my mother died the furnace went out, and my father, who had been sitting in his chair across from hers since the funeral, his unshaven chin on his chest, heaved himself up and went down the cold gray cellar stairs to see if he could relight the pilot himself or would have to call for help. I know what it must have been like because I remember him other times on his back down there, cursing match after match, god damning each for burning his fingers, as he reached through the tiny metal door as many times as it took. This time it lit, caught, and roared back to life. When my father sat up he faced the washer, the dryer, the empty laundry basket, the ironing board, and my mother’s radio above the sink, her absence so vivid that climbing the stairs he thought he heard her behind him, and he turned around.”
—An Old Story, Richard HoffmanWinter Psalm
by Richard Hoffman
Boston snowbound, Logan closed, snowplows
and salt-trucks flashing yellow, drifts
tall as a man some places, visibility poor,
I sit by the window and watch the snow
blow sideways north-northeast, hot cup
in hand, robe over pajamas.
You have made me to seek refuge
and charged me to care for my brothers.
How cruel. That could be You out there
howling, cracking the trees, burying everything.
What could I possibly want from you
that would not undo the whole world as it is?
“Love’s language is hyperbole, but whispered, sibilant similes and promises sotto voce. It’s easy to imagine you’ve misheard, the form and content clash, create this weird distortion like an echo or a tape delay. Love’s language is hyperbole, but whispered. On which do you place emphasis: The words? Or the breath? The farfetched or the foreplay? It’s easy to imagine you’ve misheard when objectivity has disappeared and your lover is getting further carried away. Love’s language is hyperbole, but whispered vows? It’s hard to take him at his word, or hers: Speak up! Proclaim! you want to say. It’s easy to imagine you’ve misheard, hard to admit one sharp as you is stirred. You need to back off, cool down, act blasé. Love’s language is hyperbole, but whispered. It’s easy to imagine you’ve misheard.”
—Aphrodisia by Richard HoffmanIt's hard to take me at my word.
Aphrodisia, by Richard Hoffman
Love’s language is hyperbole, but whispered,
sibilant similes and promises sotto voce.
It’s easy to imagine you’ve misheard,
the form and content clash, create this weird
distortion like an echo or a tape delay.
Love’s language is hyperbole, but whispered.
On which do you place emphasis: The words?
Or the breath? The farfetched or the foreplay?
It’s easy to imagine you’ve misheard
when objectivity has disappeared
and your lover is getting further carried away.
Love’s language is hyperbole, but whispered
vows? It’s hard to take him at his word,
or hers: Speak up! Proclaim! you want to say.
It’s easy to imagine you’ve misheard,
hard to admit one sharp as you is stirred.
You need to back off, cool down, act blasé.
Love’s language is hyperbole, but whispered.
It’s easy to imagine you’ve misheard.
December 31st
by Richard Hoffman
All my undone actions wander
naked across the calendar,
a band of skinny hunter-gatherers,
blown snow scattered here and there,
stumbling toward a future
folded in the New Year I secure
with a pushpin: January’s picture
a painting from the 17th century,
a still life: Skull and mirror,
spilled coin purse and a flower.
Aphrodisia - Day 41
Love’s language is hyperbole, but whispered,
sibilant similes and promises sotto voce.
It’s easy to imagine you’ve misheard,
the form and content clash, create this weird
distortion like an echo or a tape delay.
Love’s language is hyperbole, but whispered.
On which do you place emphasis: The words?
Or the breath? The farfetched or the foreplay?
It’s easy to imagine you’ve misheard
when objectivity has disappeared
and your lover is getting further carried away.
Love’s language is hyperbole, but whispered
vows? It’s hard to take him at his word,
or hers: Speak up! Proclaim! you want to say.
It’s easy to imagine you’ve misheard,
hard to admit one sharp as you is stirred.
You need to back off, cool down, act blasé.
Love’s language is hyperbole, but whispered.
It’s easy to imagine you’ve misheard.
- RICHARD HOFFMAN
Summer Job by Richard Hoffman
“The trouble with intellectuals,” Manny, my boss,
once told me, “is that they don’t know nothing
till they can explain it to themselves. A guy like that,”
he said, “he gets to middle age—and by the way,
he gets there late; he’s trying to be a boy until
he’s forty, forty-five, and then you give him five
more years until that craziness peters out, and now
he’s almost fifty—a guy like that at last explains
to himself that life is made of time, that time
is what it’s all about. Aha! he says. And then
he either blows his brains out, gets religion,
or settles down to some major-league depression.
Make yourself useful. Hand me that three-eights
torque wrench—no, you moron, the other one.”
Review For Brockton Public Library’s Poetry/Art Series Dec. 17th 2011
By Bruce Thomas Hammond
The GBSPA’s Poetry Writing Workshop kicked off today’s Poetry/Art event at the Brockton Public Library. The group started the workshop by examining an obscure poem by Emily Dickinson and moved on to helping each other with works in progress. Nature and global strife emerged as themes of members work. Following a short break our Open Mike section took place in the library’s 3rd floor gallery. We were happy to be surrounded by the great paintings of Vincent Giang. His work is expressive and shows his love of nature. It was also nice to look out over the city on a crisp late Autumn day. Nature indeed remained in our minds as it was a theme of many of the open readers. Some very cool cityscapes were also explored by readers, so the mix of nature and the modern world was quite refreshing.
Laura Rodley
Today’s host Sheila Twyman next introduced our first of two feature poets, Laura Rodley. Laura started with “Beyond The Language Of Animals,” and “Released Back Into The Wild,” both interesting reflections on youth and our fascination with animals. “Evelyn” is a loving reminiscence of a time long ago. “Resurrection” and “Irene” touched on the power of nature. “Anger Management” was both humorous and thought provoking, a combination that is quite hard to pull off well. Thank you Laura, this was a very cool and unique reading.
Our second feature, Richard Hoffman next took the stage and we were actually treated to a brief discussion between Richard and Tom Libby, a former student. They spoke of the power of words and how sound is crucial to poetry. Richard said, “Poetry is like art or even architecture. It’s building on something.” Richard started by reading from his newest book “Emblem.” “Against Those Wealthy” was an interesting look at the world using symbolism and metaphor. “Winter Bound” seemed to combine a timeless style of writing with the idea of modern struggles. The sounds of words and phrases are explored in “Aphrodesia.”
A complex series of poems followed; a sequence, as Richard called it. “Ship Of Fools” is the overarching title of the sequence. “History” and “Chartered Streets” were poems that were descriptive and thought provoking. We looked back at the past and at the same time could see correlations to where we are headed as people in this world. A great line from “’Aftermath” was “Tides here are unpredictable, let’s have some human interest, shall we?” “Landfall” has the great line“Hold your horses, people, everybody gets there.”
Richard Hoffman (at podium), Tom Libby (right)
Richard returned to stand alone poems with “The Closest We Get To Poetry,” a humorous look at the business of poetry. Richard closed with “Instructions” with the great line, “I always fell for the future.” Thank you Richard, for making us laugh and think.
On the way out we were able to interview both features. Laura Rodley gave her thoughts on the day overall, saying, “Oh wow, well… I loved it! Everyone was so friendly and nice. The great thing was that once the readings got underway everyone was so attentive to what was being said. There was a diversity I found here too. I don’t know… just basically a cool mix of people and styles.” As for current or upcoming projects Laura responded, “Well, I’m writing a lot now and 2012 will see a couple of new releases from me, but for the time being I am basically supporting “Your Left Front Wheel Is Coming Loose,” a poetry collection that I read from today.”
Richard Hoffman expressed many thoughts as he spoke to Tom but he held onto a couple thoughts and we were happy he shared them with us as the day wrapped up. “I love open mike events and this one was special. There were themes that intertwined from the different readers and there was a distinct quality to the work of the open readers.” We asked about the references to the Renaissance in his work. “I took inspiration from these minds long ago. I think to move forward we have to look back. I also love the idea of combining ancient styles with the subject of modern life.”
Keep an eye on this page for more information on the GBSPA’s plans to expand into the world of social media. The idea is to have more space to explore the details of what our group does. We are also looking forward to starting to include additional interviews with the poets and artists we usually bring you mixed with interviews with some local downtown Brockton business owners and the entertainers who make Brockton so unique. To look ahead, we have scheduled some interviews with some very cool Cape Verdean guitarists and vocalists and a violinist who truly must be seen to be believed.
Brockton Poetry Open Mic w/ Laura Rodley and Richard Hoffman 12/17/11
facebook.com
On Saturday, December 17th, the Brockton Public Library Poetry Series welcomes feature poets Laura Rodley and Richard Hoffman.
Sign up starts at 1:30.
Open Mic Starts at 2:15
Features go on at 3:30
Need some feedback about a poem you’re working on? Take part in our free poetry workshop which runs from Noon to 2:00.
“ You would have thought it foolish to speak to the dead, but I have lived two decades longer now than you and all this time I have carried you in my head so I think I have the right to question what you said, dear teacher. My religious upbringing's residue, you would have thought it foolish. To speak to the dead, however, is sometimes necessary, especially haunted by all the things I know you hoped I'd do with all this time that I have carried you in my head. In a dream last night I followed where you led until you asked me in a loud voice what I knew. (You would have thought it foolish to speak to the dead, but I was dreaming and could not refuse.) I said that you were wrong, that I could see your bitter view (since all this time I have carried you in my head) for what it was, and you for who you were. Instead of dreaming your reply I woke as you withdrew. You would have thought it foolish to speak to the dead but all this time I have carried you in my head. ”
—Long EnoughRichard Hoffman
Long Enough
You would have thought it foolish to speak to the dead,
but I have lived two decades longer now than you
and all this time I have carried you in my head
so I think I have the right to question what you said,
dear teacher. My religious upbringing’s residue,
you would have thought it foolish. To speak to the dead,
however, is sometimes necessary, especially haunted
by all the things I know you hoped I’d do
with all this time that I have carried you in my head.
In a dream last night I followed where you led
until you asked me in a loud voice what I knew.
(You would have thought it foolish to speak to the dead,
but I was dreaming and could not refuse.) I said
that you were wrong, that I could see your bitter view
(since all this time I have carried you in my head)
for what it was, and you for who you were. Instead
of dreaming your reply I woke as you withdrew.
You would have thought it foolish to speak to the dead
but all this time I have carried you in my head.
