Jude Hoffman (he/him) aims to write in a way that strips away the rules and expectations of what poetry should be. His poetry is improvisational, and does not go through much of an editing process after it’s written. He is still working on how to find the appropriate intersection between being politically active, writing, and not taking up others' space. His hope is that his style of poetry will begin to provide whatever catharsis the reader is looking for.
Music and IV’s
There once was a hurricane
that destroyed most of a cemetery
leaving only a few tombstones
to remember loved ones
left standing.
When I was a boy,
I used to play a game
where I would give each tombstone a note
depending on how high out of the ground it was standing,
and I would just walk through the cemetery
singing the song of tiny stone angels.
Even then, I knew the flats and the minors were too much
for young hearts.
I stopped writing once you got cancer.
There just weren’t words that were honest anymore.
We always used our words like swords and shields
but what good is a shield if it’s made of glass?
The ink well
your bones
ran dry.
My page
your skin
sickeningly white.
Both faces
empty
You can’t fill a chair with vowels
or pentameter
or letters you wish you’d written.
There just aren’t words
that can fill the air
in a way that makes things different
So, we just sit in silence
and let the words we never said hang
and drip
one by one
straight into our blood
hoping they’ll save us.
The last time I saw my father,
he was not strong.
He was not brave
or courageous.
He was just reading.
He held the newspaper,
as he did every day,
and he just folded it in half,
ever careful to keep the crease
and then fell towards the table.
The ways the plates bounced
and left that double clap
is part of the song that day.
Crash, clap clap, wail, sirens, wail, shoes, wail wail, wheels on linoleum, drip drip
breathe.
whisper
I’m sorry
collapse.
The song my sister’s lungs made
was a sad jazz.
Just the steady roll of a crash cymbal
stretching out its last shake.
Not wanting to stop dancing.
Not ever.
There are little bells under the vowels on my typewriter,
so when I write,
there is always a song.
Always there.
But when I am away,
there is still a song
in the air
in the way people blink
in tombstones
and lungs
and dinner plates
and the crackle of a newspaper folding.
It is with me.
A journal
embroidered on my ear drum.
I keep collecting songs.
In my next life, please let me be deaf.
There once was a hurricane
that destroyed most of a cemetery
leaving only a few tombstones
to remember loved ones
left standing.
When I was a boy,
I used to play a game
where I would give each tombstone a note
depending on how high out of the ground it was standing,
and I would just walk through the cemetery
singing the song of tiny stone angels.
Even then, I knew the flats and the minors were too much
for young hearts.
I stopped writing once you got cancer.
There just weren’t words that were honest anymore.
We always used our words like swords and shields
but what good is a shield if it’s made of glass?
The ink well
your bones
ran dry.
My page
your skin
sickeningly white.
Both faces
empty
You can’t fill a chair with vowels
or pentameter
or letters you wish you’d written.
There just aren’t words
that can fill the air
in a way that makes things different
So, we just sit in silence
and let the words we never said hang
and drip
one by one
straight into our blood
hoping they’ll save us.
The last time I saw my father,
he was not strong.
He was not brave
or courageous.
He was just reading.
He held the newspaper,
as he did every day,
and he just folded it in half,
ever careful to keep the crease
and then fell towards the table.
The ways the plates bounced
and left that double clap
is part of the song that day.
Crash, clap clap, wail, sirens, wail, shoes, wail wail, wheels on linoleum, drip drip
breathe.
whisper
I’m sorry
collapse.
The song my sister’s lungs made
was a sad jazz.
Just the steady roll of a crash cymbal
stretching out its last shake.
Not wanting to stop dancing.
Not ever.
There are little bells under the vowels on my typewriter,
so when I write,
there is always a song.
Always there.
But when I am away,
there is still a song
in the air
in the way people blink
in tombstones
and lungs
and dinner plates
and the crackle of a newspaper folding.
It is with me.
A journal
embroidered on my ear drum.
I keep collecting songs.
In my next life, please let me be deaf.
© 2017
Jude Hoffman
Jude Hoffman was a Featured Poet at the December 2017 Second Sunday Poetry Series
Jude Hoffman was a Featured Poet at the December 2017 Second Sunday Poetry Series