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Best Poems Written by Jordan Hoffman

Below are the all-time best Jordan Hoffman poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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College Acceptance

I’m so thrilled to announce my acceptance
To my highest choice university!
These next four years will fly by in a glance,
But from the debt I will never be free. 

My lighter classes will give me migraines,
And my harder classes will mean break downs.
I will never recover from the strain
Of my degree. I will leave my hometown.

The sororities poison my liver.
My absent roommate won’t pick up her trash.
I consider the flow of the river,
And if the waves and my body will thrash.

Cheers! I got into the school of my dreams.
But these four years aren’t as good as they seem.

Details | Jordan Hoffman Poem

Louisiana Humidity

louisiana humidity chokes you. it takes a hold
of your lungs and squeezes tight. my parents
didn’t consider this when they moved into our
home of Bones and Skin. I dread the moments of my red
flushed face and beating heart from a moment outside.

the south has not been kind to those of us who
don’t evolve to Breathe around the Heat. it walks over 
us, beats us. kills us. and then declares our broken and
butchered lungs a Testimony to its Strength. i 
wonder if it is actually revealing its Cowardice.

louisiana humidity does not get lighter with the
winter months. there is no reprieve from the overbearing 
moisture. it seeps into my pores at night, even as our ac 
bill robs us dry. my mouth is Open. Open. please, God, 
it is open. words pour out of which i don’t recognize.

uniformity is valued here. where boys wear collared
shirts, and men wear Pointed Hoods. girls sew their skirts
and women sew their sins. there has never been,
and there will never be, overlap. the humidity will take
care of that if the burning crosses haven’t already.

i try not to Love things here. they Melt. my affections are
too warm, and the heat grows jealous. ripping smooth 
skin and pink lips out of my Fingertips. instead, i watch
the wax figurines from a distance as they fight against
their dripping bodies. i try not to miss them.

louisiana humidity grows on a person. i no longer
fear the Noon Sun. my toes gladly curl in the green grass.
the south has the most gorgeous grass. i fear those who watch 
from shadowed windows, their cold eyes grazing my skin. my 
face flushes red again, but now accompanied with boiling blood.

enjoy the heat. enjoy God’s sun. why will they not 
come outside. the humidity Comforts, what is to fear?

Details | Jordan Hoffman Poem

To Forge a Legacy

Now I cannot lie. We fought our battle.
The fight was lost, but still our war rages.
I have seen the hot crimson blood that’ll
Mark the clipped youth of our fallens’ ages.

I see this death, yet we must continue.
Our kingdom cries for us, for their safety.
Our divine Queen knows you have it in you.
We fight in the name of God’s bravery.

Our enemy is strong, but I swear on 
My country that I will lay down my life.
If we march tonight, we will march till dawn,
and by God, we will fight death’s piercing knife.

Today, we avenge the fearless deceased.
Brothers, today we forge our legacies.

September 14, 2020

Details | Jordan Hoffman Poem

I Do Not Trust Sport Trainers

There is a twinge in my left knee,
right on the inside of the kneecap, under the bone.

I’ll jump, sometimes.
Tendons stretching, stretching, stretching—
muscles flexing.
My foot leave the ground (pointed, of course).
My other leg is straight already (pointed, of course). 
I lock myself in this position, finding the stretch, the burn, for a second in which I do not know the ground.

I fall. Land on one toe, then a foot, then a weight that cannot possibly belong to me.
My knee twinges. 
I ignore it.

I stretch the other side, there is no twinge.

I go back to my left. Twinge. Twinge. I ignore it.

Wearing knee braces on top of leggings, is embarrassing, anyway.

Details | Jordan Hoffman Poem

200 Days After

I used to never cry when characters died
In books. Their deaths were words on pages
That my eyes roamed over. In search 
Of conflict. The screams of childless 
Mothers seeped through the paper, 
Always falling on deaf ears.

Pain used to be a mild acquaintance. 
One kept at a distance. It was the feeling
Of skinned knees. Of sidewalks not quite big
Enough for three people. My nights spent 
Grounded, eating alone, were a hollow 
Loneliness. Tears were sweet then.

Now I devour the trigger warnings on 
My favorite shows, the words of decay catching
My eye like gleaming diamonds. I hungrily
Watch for the hopelessness buried within 
The stomachs of dead children. What I once 
Thought was Pain is merely minor casualty.

Now I sob. When I see mourning. Fictional grief
Is mine; every thought focused on draining
What is written and making it about myself.
About what Pain used to be. My mother
Worried when I began pretending that
 I was the only one to ever hurt. To ever mourn. 

Now she’s the one pretending I’m not here. 
That is a Loneliness heavy with grief and sour tears.

Pain is no longer distant. It is the feeling of cold 
Skin. It is the sound of the last phone call at 4:23 p.m.
It is a desk with no kid in it. It is the messy room that
Childless mothers now have to clean. It is the sound 
Of my own screams that have only stopped because
I have run out of breath, and I refuse to open my lungs. 

The Pain is no longer my acquaintance.
It is my only friend.

Details | Jordan Hoffman Poem

Too Tired For Goodbyes

Too Tired for Goodbyes - 9/8/2020

I kept your pictures in the box
Behind my shelves. I hid the little
Objects you gifted me before you 
Decided I proved useless. Your words
Still creep beside the holes in 
My conscience, never letting me forget.

You left. They forgot to tell me this.

It took until I felt your cold bed. Until
Your coffee mug grew covered in rust.
Until I no longer recognized the footsteps
Of the empty body shuffling in the 
Living room. It took until you were gone
To notice we were dying.

I pretended you held no residence in my 
Present. Since you were over, I could
Begin. But no. I lied. I lied too much.
I lied when you were still mine. The lying 
Might’ve been the thing to convince your 
Skin to decompose in the spot in which 
You promised you loved me.

Or you could’ve just grown too tired.  
Too tired to give Goodbyes. 

Lipogram Letter A – Emile Pinet

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6 Am Practice

“LISTEN CAREFULLY.”
quietly, softly.

a ball bounces:
one two
one two
one two

eyelashes touch, mouths part
hear the gasps and pants

to the left a girl breaks her nail,
to the right a dancer unpoints her toe.

awful,
“AGAIN”

Details | Jordan Hoffman Poem

I Tell My Roommate Not To Worry Twice a Week After 10

there is a cotton feeling to it:
the same sheets
            the same bed
                        still looking for a song         
                        that doesn’t exist yet.
the door closes quietly, pushed not.
I think of a comfortable ending—
the ghosts under my skin agree.

a comfortable ending
a concerned mother
a cotton feeling

Details | Jordan Hoffman Poem

I'M Not Sorry

Lipogram A – Free Verse – I’m Not Sorry

I’m not sorry
For ripping to shreds
the invented future you drew
Between the person I will never be
Plus the person you’ve forever been.

I formed by body to serve—me.
Not you. Not your love. Not 
The style in which you disgustingly beg for connection.
Me.
So I’m not sorry.

I felt nothing when you cried
Or implored me to forgo
My own mind
For the hopes I’d rescue yours. 
I’m not concerned for yours.

I hope you cry rivers until even the levees
Flood in your misery. Until I’m drowned in your
Self-pity. 
I will never be your toy.
I’m not sorry.

June 5, 2021
Lipogram (A) Contest – Emile Pinet

Details | Jordan Hoffman Poem

Honeycombed Memory

my Memory exists as a beehive, the buzz
Eating away at the mundane thoughts. i seldom
remember anything, my memory storing
everything useless but nothing of Love
or Joy or the Butterflies i get when pretty
Girls lull my name with a sugary song.

rather, my Memory stores that of third
grade multiplication charts. my mind runs around 
a game of tag played when i was no taller than
the tree stump we used as base. i remember
a red flushed face when i said the wrong thing,
and the tears of Death that never stopped to sleep.

the worker bees that buzz in the honeycombs
of my brain have stopped craving sweet nectar,
instead settling for bitter pollen that is given
by the flowers of my Pain. i no longer search for
Good. the Bad fills my stomach and eats my Empty.
this is convenient as the Bad is never in short supply.

the surface of my Youth is splintered by the 
onslaught of bottomless shrieks from my friends.
the cracks resemble their tear ridden faces, always
crying out to a God they have stopped believing in,
praying that Death will swarm their honeycombed
heads and devour even the vile Pollen left by the bees.

But more often than not, the Pollen is too rotten to eat
And it is left behind, forcing what is left to rot as well