Two Poems by Sharon Weightman Hoffmann


Writing a sonnet,
my fingers count each other.
When a line gets lost,
they push the floating air
in a slow wave like
anemones. When
the poem finds itself,
it gestures and chatters.
It is five, playing
It is a deaf woman
talking to herself.
Inside my palm,
something is forming.
My hands
bloom in the air.

A Review

If I were going to write a poem
about a man, I wouldn’t do it
the way Sharon Weightman would.
I wouldn’t be oblique, ironic;
I wouldn’t retreat
to literary language; I wouldn’t
disguise myself in metaphor.
At times she’s unsure what
tone to take – she cuts
sentiment to the bone,
then tells us twice
what we already know.
She ought to forget Yeats,
Roethke, Wright; dare
her own voice. I want her
to quit posing questions.
Let someone ask: Where are you?
Let her answer: Here.

Sharon Weightman Hoffmann is a writer raised in the Lowcountry and now based in Atlantic Beach, Florida. For many years, she was the editor of Kalliope, a journal of women’s art. Publications include The New York Quarterly, Beloit Poetry Journal, Spoon River Poetry Review, Sojourner, Plainswoman, Alice Walker: Critical Perspectives (Harvard University Press), and Isle of Flowers (Anhinga Press). Previous awards include fellowships from Atlantic Center for the Arts and Florida’s Division of Cultural Affairs, and two Pushcart Prize nominations. New work is forthcoming at Showcase, The Banyon Review, Letters, Poetica and Wild Roof Journal.

Appears In

Issue 20

Browse Issues