Two poems by Paul Hoover

Why Is Quiet "Kept"?

They are crying out in restaurants,
so delighted to be speaking,
they appear to be insane.

But we are the silent types, 
who hold speech within 
like the rustle of gold foil.

We eat our words and swallow hard.
There’s nothing much to say.
The knot’s in its nest, breathing.
A hand thinks it’s a bird.

The world “nows”; it doesn’t know.
The world “wows.” Then it snows.

A word arrives, silent and upright.
It stands in profile against a white wall.
It’s here for safekeeping only.

Keep quiet, mice.
A cat’s patrolling the area, 
with drones and more drones.

The keys we carry unlock us every day
and lock us up again.  Hushed is the ward.
Now conjugate, please, to werd and to werld.

One of us has just conceived 
the sum for infinity:  plus one, plus one, plus one.
In the cosmological phone booth,
there’s always one more.

The fishing report’s too thick to read, 
but its cadence is that of a god.
Waves and ships are passing.
We can barely discern the semaphores
flashing through the fog.

And here are the ones who walk the walk and talk the talk,  
blackening the day with news, with news.


"Don't Kill Yourself"


Don’t kill yourself, Paul.
The world is angry for only a moment
and then it loves you again.
Even its perfect indifference
is love and no love in equal doses.

Don’t contemplate some ending
strapped to the hood of a car.
Don't swallow too many donuts.

Stop weeping like an ostrich
and stalking the boundary fences.
Stop batting your eyelashes.

Everyone knows you lost a big one.
Forget about it, my boy.
Everyone loses the big one.
Who do you think you are?

Your life could be a painting,
The Triumph of Inertia.
The shadows flow in the wrong direction,
but the sun is in its sky.

Don’t kill yourself with the shovel
We’ll have to bury you with.
Don’t even look at that gun.

Your babies are still growing.
Don't disappoint them
with the last cliché of your life.
Go play in the sea with your clothes on
or with no clothes, if you wish.

There are plenty of secrets left
to share with perfect strangers.
So live bravely and die exhausted,
both hands in the till.

It's true we remember little
of what you said or did,
but this will improve with time.

Old wine is the best.
The needle will find its thread.