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Overview
“A book of love poems that consciously and subversively hearken back to Shakespeare’s sonnets, marking Hofmann’s position as one of our necessary poets of erotic desire.” —Jericho Brown, Pulitzer Prize–winning author of The Tradition
A Hundred Lovers is a catalog of encounters, sublime, steamy, and frank. Inspired by French autofiction, the poems feel both sharp and diaristic; their lyrical, intimate world brings us everyday scenes imbued with sex. "Eros enters, where shame had lived," the speaker observes, as the poems explore risk and appetite, promiscuity and violence, and, in the wake of his marriage, questions about monogamy and desire.
Bringing us both the carefully knotted silk ties of the wedding pair and their undress in a series of Hockney-like interiors where passion colors every object, Hofmann speaks plainly of the saliva, tears, and guts of the carnal, just as he does of the sublime in works of art. A Hundred Lovers invites us to consider our own memories of pleasure and pain, which fill the generous white space the poet leaves open to us between his ravishing lines.
Product Details
ISBN-13: | 9780593320983 |
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Publisher: | Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group |
Publication date: | 02/08/2022 |
Pages: | 80 |
Sales rank: | 439,298 |
Product dimensions: | 6.19(w) x 8.67(h) x 0.40(d) |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
Coquelicot
I pretend to sleep when he leaves.
He rubs his thumb across my chapped lips,
he touches the hair grown long around my ears.
I remember smelling him and the garrigue.
I leave by fast train, passing through suburbs,
poverty, dilapidated buildings so close to destruction from within, poppies in full sun,
the blurring dross, the violet graffiti, then nothing. My dirty clothes packed above me, the T-shirt that carries his smell,
the weak black pepper of him,
the T-shirt he wiped his penis with.
I’m afraid of falling asleep,
because I will desire him in my sleep.
Every Night
I listened to the études through the early winter,
so quiet, so fine even my breath could ruin them.
I asked my boyfriend to suffocate me,
I made him lick the mirror.
The nineteenth-century moldings expressed an indifferent perfection. Breeze at the window, our skins shivery.
I ate all the time at that place where they cut pizza with scissors and you pay by the weight.
I kissed my classmates,
I walked aroused under the chestnuts.
Every night I told him you should take a shower before you come over.
Street of Dyers
Coming home early in the morning,
I heard withered cats
behind the sycamores, the canal rushing from a different century. The alleys
so quiet in this city I never really liked.
The widow with an Hermès scarf tied around her head
walked her ugly-beautiful dogs.
I lived behind a Louis XV door
in a room that imprisoned winter even as spring was rife outside—
I was not in love, there was nothing to experience.
German Cities
Next week he will be away, auditioning:
Stuttgart. Frankfurt. Hamburg. Berlin.
We talk about music, style, discipline,
the great composers—
He sings and speaks with the voice of a priest, father, or devil.
I pull on my jeans, in my pocket the department store strip of paper sprayed with cologne.
The garden that enters the room is the garden of a childhood in Munich; the naked old men who smoked along the banks of the river are dead now. My pocket smells of masculine lavender.
One Another
We are knotted in the white bedding.
I don’t want sleep to separate us. We breathe with the darkness, like an enormous animal.
Our bodies manufacture their odors. I taste earth on his skin. Eros enters, where shame had lived.
Pale sun, then morning. How easily the earth closes its cavities. I leave the apartment wearing his black anorak.
Underground
My friend paid a little money.
We waited outside, above the stifling staircase.
A muscled boy danced foolishly.
Music pulsed through a window.
A $400 puppy mask,
light on our foreheads, the glasses sweating. His husband off to the toilets to snort cocaine.
The room was full of shapes.
I wanted to feel tenderness,
but the love everyone was seeking
I already owned. All Sunday,
I was like a baby with a long memory not able to touch or kiss anyone,
in the long twin bed with the lace coverlet.
Table of Contents
Coquelicot 3
Every Night 4
Street of Dyers 5
German Cities 6
One Another 7
Underground 8
At the Rustic Hamlet Built in 1783 for Marie Antoinette, Last Queen of France 9
Spring Wedding 11
Historic District 12
The Toilet of Venus 13
Pink Room 14
Edible Flowers 15
City of Violent Wind 16
History of Pleasure 19
Mosquitoes 20
Sarcophagus 21
Blue Anther 22
Weekend 23
The Romans 24
Summer and Fall 25
Tiberius 26
The Fables 27
Quail 28
The Arab Baths 29
Under Limestone 31
Things That Are Rare 32
Beneath Our Skin 33
Rilke Poem 34
Looking at Medieval Art 35
Cypress 36
Linen 37
Mummified Bird 38
Museum 40
September 41
Bottom's Dream 42
Opulence 43
You Couldn't Lose Me 44
Male Beauty 45
Night and Day 46
French Novel 47
Pernod 48
Feast Days 49
Acknowledgments 59