could you do a web about falling out of love with someone and hurting because you miss the "old them"?
Ah! I hope this does it justice! ;^^
this would be so much easier if i still knew you.
First Love, Jennifer Franklin | Armed Cavalier, Richie Hofmann | Self Portrait in Dark Interior, Curtis Bauer | Stuff I probably did and didn't, Stephanie Gray | Never Love an Anchor, The Crane Wives | Waiting, Caitlyn Siehl | Russian Ending, Jerry Williams | The More Loving One, W. H. Auden | _sayorikinnie on pinterest | The River-Merchant's Wife: A Letter, Erza Pound | @/inanotheruniverse on tumblr | @/dazzlingtiredeyes on tumblr | Wrong Side of a Fistfight, Ashe Vernon | Ode to People Who Hate Me, Carmen Giménez | If My Body Could Speak; What I couldn’t explain via text, Blythe Baird | @/chloeinletters on tumblr | Romance or The End, Elaine Kahn | Presumably Dead Arm, Sidney Gish
[text transcription in alt text]
245 notes
·
View notes
from pink room by richie hofmann, published in a hundred lovers
[Text ID: I love you because you can’t be destroyed by love; we are immune to one another: /End ID]
448 notes
·
View notes
Richie Hofmann - French Novel
You were my second lover.
You had dark eyes and hair,
like a painting of a man.
We lay on our stomachs reading books in your bed.
I e-mailed my professor. I will be absent
from French Novel due to sickness. You put on
some piano music. Even though
it was winter, we had to keep
the window open day and night, the room was so hot, the air so dry
it made our noses bleed.
With boots we trekked through slush for a bottle of red wine
we weren’t allowed to buy, our shirts unbuttoned
under our winter coats.
The French language distinguishes
between the second
of two and the second
of many. Of course
we’d have other lovers. Snow fell in our hair.
You were my second lover.
Another way of saying this:
you were the other,
not another.
3 notes
·
View notes
Richie Hofmann. “What struck me most was the light that came after, / filling the whole house with itself…”
4 notes
·
View notes
The heart of the city was like a human heart — it was an ornate box in which I hid when I desired.
Richie Hofmann
33 notes
·
View notes
We asked Richie Hofmann, author of the sexy collection A Hundred Lovers, to choose a poem by one of his Knopf forebears. He came back within minutes with J. D. McClatchy’s “Late Night Ode.” Richie writes, “I adore McClatchy’s poem, a wry and witty tribute to middle age and the middle of the night—‘It’s over, love’ the perfect opening—which fights back its precise and beautifully rendered breakup song to reveal something romantic, lush, and unforgettable. Even after love is gone, the poet reminds us, we’re still reaching for it through the ‘bruised, unbalanced waves.’”
Late Night Ode
It’s over, love. Look at me pushing fifty now,
Hair like grave-grass growing in both ears,
The piles and boggy prostate, the crooked penis,
The sour taste of each day’s first lie,
And that recurrent dream of years ago pulling
A swaying bead-chain of moonlight,
Of slipping between the cool sheets of dark
Along a body like my own, but blameless.
What good’s my cut-glass conversation now,
Now I’m so effortlessly vulgar and sad?
You get from life what you can shake from it?
For me, it’s g and t’s all day and CNN.
Try the blond boychick lawyer, entry level
At eighty grand, who pouts about the overtime,
Keeps Evian and a beeper in his locker at the gym,
And hash in tinfoil under the office fern.
There’s your hound from heaven, with buccaneer
Curls and perfumed war-paint on his nipples.
His answering machine always has room for one more
Slurred, embarrassed call from you-know-who.
Some nights I’ve laughed so hard the tears
Won’t stop. Look at me now. Why now?
I long ago gave up pretending to believe
Anyone’s memory will give as good as it gets.
So why these stubborn tears? And why do I dream
Almost every night of holding you again,
Or at least of diving after you, my long-gone,
Through the bruised unbalanced waves?
More on this book and author:
Learn more about Plundered Hearts by J. D. McClatchy and A Hundred Lovers by Richie Hofmann.
Browse other books by J. D. McClatchy and follow Richie Hofmann on Instagram @richiehof.
See Richie Hofmann in conversation with fellow poets Willard Spiegelman, Michael Dickman, and Deborah Landau at the Montclair Literary Festival on April 27. The “Becoming a Poet” panel begins at 1:45 pm in University Hall on the campus of Montclair State University.
Hear Richie Hofmann join Kevin Young on The New Yorker's Poetry Podcast to read “Twilight,” by Henri Cole, and his own poem “French Novel.”
Visit our Tumblr to peruse poems, audio recordings, and broadsides in the Knopf poem-a-day series.
To share the poem-a-day experience with friends, pass along this link.
0 notes
A poem by Richie Hofmann
History of Pleasure
I walked by myself to the market
past ruins with broken
bodies of stone, where even
a fragment of a man could undo me.
I bought herbs wrapped in paper.
Light shone through the glass of our apartment.
You had been showering,
the smell of mint invaded the room, your hair was wet.
Richie Hofmann
Listen to Richie Hofmann read his poem
More poems by Richie Hofmann are available through his website.
1 note
·
View note