Frank DaPavia read, from delicate onionskin yellow pages,
or pink, which he kept flipping through with long white
fingers, the poems of his dead chum..."
Jack Kerouac, Dharma Bums
'...who disappeared into the volcanoes of Mexico leaving
behind nothing but the shadow of dungarees and the lava
and ash of poetry...'
Alan Ginsberg, Howl
Poetry is news that stays news. Especially when it
inspires a revolution in the arts and then remains dead
and buried for fifty years. That's the case with the
poetry of John Hoffman is considered by many to be one
of the key landmark events signaling the birth of the
Because at the Six Gallery reading 50 years ago in
San Francisco, while Ginsberg was reading Howl for the
first time and Kerouac was beating on a jug of red wine
and shouting Go, Go, Go!, young surrealist poet Philip
Lamantia took a far different and more self-effacing
tack that fateful day. He read the poetry of his friend
Hoffman, it seems, had done something quite dramatic
and inspiring to the early Beats. He was young, good
looking literary, spiritually transcendantal, and he
died dramatically - like 'disappearing' into a volcano
in Mexico. After wandering spaced out, long haired and
blonde through the ranks of the proto-Beats, he became
victim of a probable overdose of Peyotl at the tender
age of 21 around 1951.
And then that was the end of John Hoffman. Four years
later, LaMantia read John Hoffman's poems and after
that his work disappeared too. John Hoffman - described
as 'legendary' and 'inspirational' by many Beat scholars
- remained virtually unpublished and unexamined for
half a century.
Until now, that is.
Thanks to Philip LaMantia, who saved the 'delicate
onionskin pages' Kerouac mentions. And thanks to Kolourmeim
Press, which published a tiny 29-poem collection of
Hoffman's work, a very few copies of his poetry was
returned to the world in 2000.
And thanks to Gerd Stern, who not only kept hold of
his personally-addressed copy but provided a handwritten
copy of it to a research library in San Diego and shared
it with such researchers as John Raskin (author of biographies
on Abbie Hoffman and Allen Ginsberg, among others).
This autumn Gerd Stern has provided a copy of "Journey
To The End" to Poetrybay for commentary and review.
WHO WAS JOHN HOFFMAN?
In the constellation of the Beat world, nearly everyone
- from the central figures Kerouac, Ginsberg and Burroughs
to their influences, their primary and secondary associates,
perpipheral figures to the scene, and next-generation
figures - has been given their share of ink.
But the story - like the poetry - of this mysterious
figure, John Hoffman is virtually unknown.
For all its remarkable qualities, the story is plain
enough. Hoffman had become an underground legend by
the mid-1950s in San Francisco, but had disappeared
mysteriously and romantically in Mexico.
But who was John Hoffman, and what was his poetry?
Little has been written about him.
Carl Solomon, in his book Emergency Messages, catalogues
him thus: "John Hoffman, 1930?-1950 or 1951. Home-town:
Menlo Park, California. Friend of Gerd Stern, etc, also
Philip Lamantia and Chris Maclaine, both California
poets. Blond, handsome, bespectacled, long hair. Spaced
out quality that amused many people. Girl friend blonde
girl named to Mexico in 1950. Experimented with peyote.
Died of mononucleosis while in Mexico. Poems highly
regarded by avant-garde connoisseurs."
William Burroughs referred to him as 'one of those
junkies in Mexico.'
Gerd Stern give the fullest accounting in his book,
published online, An Oral History.
"I (had) this car, and I was living in it on the
streets of New York. There was a bar at that time that
we all went to--the San Remo on Bleeker and MacDougal
streets--and who should show up at the San Remo a few
days later but John Hoffman, a poet from San Francisco
whom I had met there with Philip Lamantia at a bar right
across the street--12 Adler Place--from the City Lights...He
was blond, tall, and very skinny, and he came from the
peninsula south of San Francisco. He was really good-looking,
but he had this vacant kind of look in his eyes. And
he was a really good poet...We decided we were going
to go to sea. Actually, I think I got inspired for that
by what Carl (Solomon) had told me about his time as
a merchant seaman...We heard that there was a hiring
hall for Scandinavian seamen in Brooklyn. We finally
found the address, and we went there, and they hired
us on the spot. We left later that day on the M.S. Bowhill
from Bergen [Norway]--a Norwegian ship--for South America
(Ed note: around 1950).
We had taken all kinds of books of poetry, and one
of the books we took was a surrealist work Les Chants
de Maldoror by the Comte de Lautréamont who happened
to be born in Montevideo [Uruguay], which was one of
the ports that we were going to. It was a coincidence
that John happened to have the book. We felt that it
was very poignant. So we read the poems to each other.
We would lie out on the hatch under the moonlight...John
and I were writing poetry like mad on that trip. I don't
know whatever happened to a lot of it..."
UCLA's Special Collections has in its possession a 1956
version of Hoffman's work, published and distributed
by Bern Porter, with the following reference: Author/Name:
Hoffman, John. Title: Journey to the end ... with an
introd. by Philip Lamantia ... the whole collected,
edited and assembled by Philip Lamantia and Bern Porter.
Published/distributed: [San Francisco] : Bern Porter,
1956 (Record ID: 1755783 SRLF Non-Circ Request at UCLA
YRL Special Collections).
Better-known, however, is the version of Hoffman's
poetry from a limited edition of 24 copies published
by Kolourmein Press of Oakland November 2000. "Supposedly
24 copies were printed in 2000 of which they sent me
#6 - The Hermetic Edition Kolourmeim Press, Oakland,"
notes Stern, who has in his possession a sheaf of original
Hoffman-typed poems. Originally he and LaMantia were
to write a preface and an introduction, respectively,
but these items were not included in the collection.
Today, a copy of that collection may be found at UC-
San Diego's Mandeville Special Collections Library (reference:
The Register of Tram Combs Papers 1946 - 1964 MSS 0123:
Mandeville Special Collections Library, Geisel Library,
University of California, San Diego, in a marked Box
9 folder 12, is this item: Hoffman, John - Journey to
the End - Copied from copy owned by Gerd Stern. Ca.
1963, Typescript and carbon copy.)
A friend of mine remarked, on seeing a few of John
Hoffman's poems, that it seemed like a fresh coat of
paint on the old bench of Beat poetry, no doubt referring
to how Hoffman's poems shed light on the work of the
likes of Ginsberg, LaMantia, McClure and the rest.
Aside from the value in reading his work as a context
for that of the more well-known Beat literary figures,
however, one might well examine it for its own qualities.
The qualities are many. Hoffman's poetry possesses
an other-world, lyrical and innocent quality. There
is a hushed reverence to it, as he takes us from metaphysical
and surreal vistas to quite concrete environs - from
the crow-studded fields of North American grain to more
exotic Mexican and Caribbean-basin settings, and from
nightmarish mindscapes to his writing chamber.
Without question, Hoffman's is a modern voice, quiet
modern voice, making use of devices one might have seen
as experimental in the late 1940s and early 50s - spreading
lines across the page, eschewing sentimentality, trying
on objectivist and prose poetry techniques.
There is ecstatic spirituality to be found in his work.
But this is a writer who is unafraid of devotional formality.
At times, it is as if Hoffman seems to be addressing
a primal or animist deity, in the incantatory voice
of a somewhat subdued human in the presence of something
larger than himself but also inside himself (O dark
sun/Setting in my bloodsea!; Dry rains the rain on me
my days/No longer me but what becomes). He swings from
descriptive to metaphysical (The coiled sun/swings/Like
a slow snake/Across//The sky calendar... or this, from
SOCRATES OR CONFUCIUS: death is after all: nothing/those
who don't fear are: equilibrists/there is only one number:
At other times, his approach devolves to folk-like
lyrics, as in (PIQUE/Song), where he mimics the song
of crows: Love is burning burning burning/Buried gods
lie under trees/Scarecrows caw at lost apostles/Clutching
them by tattered sleeves.
There are quite beautiful specifics in the poetry -
banana trees, birds lighting on windows with news of
distant beaches, seashacks and 'sunflowers bursting
at their zenith.' And he makes good use of repetition,
individual images or whole lines, to engender an odelike
sense of wonder, as in the marvelous THE ABANDONERS:
They had built a shack of wind
The sand ate its walls: and
Hideous summer spouted a sea at them.
Hurricanes later I returned (tho
I had never been)
How hard to grasp a former presence
Tho it was nailed where the door had been
Now the dunes have locked it open:
Better try to grasp the wind
Better try to grasp the wind
Hoffman even offers us a glimpse into his personal
space, though transformed by a somewhat mythologized
surrealism, he ends the poem with a line so mundane
and flat that it must have been deliberately constructed
to bring us back to earth, as in the untitled poem (The
walls of my room will not fall out...), with its uncanny
prefiguration of the movie "Barton Fink,"
which came forty years later:
The walls of my room will not fall out -- they have
been pinioned with wire.
My desk is borne on the backs of woodenhorses. When
I write late at night they groan heavily and their breathing
becomes hoarse. Once one of them reared and my litter
And in the day music from the street causes the wires
to tremble and the walls shake violently.
In spite of this I am very secure.
John Hoffman was unfortunately, not as successful at
bringing himself down to earth in life as he did in
this poem. The book concludes as his life did, with
SONG OF A WANDERER
I am a man who knows
Of sun and moon and star
Of earth and sea and air
And do not tell of them
Because I have no words
In the end, John Hoffman wandered off into an eternity
so dark and reached at so early an age that his extant
poems, as demonstrated in the book "Journey To
The End," can only hint at what he might have achieved.
But at least, thanks to the good sense of a few friends,
a few hints remain.
So here's the news - there is news yet from the volcano
which was John Hoffman's life and poetry. Fifty years
after his little poems helped spark the Beat movement,
we may still hear this 'blonde, bespectacled, spaced
out' young Californian tell us what exactly it was that
he saw...and rediscover how his telling about that,
in his life and in his poetry, inspired the birth of
a literary generation.