The virtue of quietness is not in vogue in much of the poetry of our moment. The majority of poems I read by young writers—and I am one of them—are more concerned with associative movement than with clarity; more interested in bounding over psychological terrain than in establishing single, distinct impressions. These poems are loud, unruly, and brimming over with energy. They tend to wear their hearts (or lack thereof) on their sleeves.
Smoke green mist leans into the rocks,
where fishermen whistle and mend their nets,
practicing rituals of brotherhood
before the luster of sky and sun,
which flashes against the pale horizon
with the oily turbulence of a swarm
This first sentence, which makes up half of the poem, sets the stage for the delayed turn—the entrance of Hoffman’s speaker in line 10: “Standing at the water’s edge, I watch myself / loosen into a brief exquisite blur.” The speaker finally compares himself to Antinoüs, “turning away from love / toward what he knows, even then, is loss.” “Sea Interlude: Dawn” introduces many of the themes that will be taken up elsewhere in the collection: the speaker’s conflicted relationship to, and fascination with, history; the problem of coming to terms with one’s identity; the possibility of loss that lurks on the margins of every apparently innocuous experience.
You’d expect a certain view from such a mirror–
than one that hangs in the entry and decays.
past my reflection toward other things:
burnt gold upon blue, which decorate the wall
those objects collected from travels . . .
Similarly, in “Night Ferry” we find four long sections of irregular-length rhyming couplets:
Tonight, distantly, the cold air
comes off the square,
where all those people, bundled in winter coats,
line up to buy tickets for the boats.
Everywhere the city disguises
them from each other. The black ferry moves. The water rises
in the dark.
The people disembark.
These poems exhibit a careful construction that makes them feel oracular and at times disembodied, even inhuman. They are characterized by hitches in otherwise unassuming surfaces, moments of surprise which often take the form of wonderfully strange and precise verbs. In “Description,” Hofmann’s speaker recalls,
And snow shawled the branches.
And you took the keys from your pocket. And snow feathered the grass
which was mine to remember and forget.
“Antique Book” finds the sky “crazed with swallows;” “Bats tacked blackness / to the sky” in “The Surround.” Hofmann’s poems resemble Cole’s in their texturing of light, airy sentences with sharp, precise diction. They are at once minimal and forceful, authoritative and reserved.
From the Phoenicians, they learned to extract
the color from shells.
When their dogs ate sea snails along the coast,
their dog-teeth were dyed purple—that’s how the Phoenicians knew.
To darken it,