Vox Populi
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Richard Hoffman: Nestling
One day an old painter, impatient with his failures, took a scissors to the paintings he didn’t like, cutting them into strips and putting them out with the trash. A few days later, he saw a robin hopping across the yard with a bright ribbon of canvas in its beak. It flew up into a tree in his neighbor’s yard, and after a few moments it began to sing. Without hesitation — the impulse familiar, having answered all his life similar creative invitations — he returned to his studio and cut up all of his remaining paintings, every last one of them.
His dealer was furious; his friends appalled; his children alarmed. The old painter, shuffling along with his bag of ribbons, draping them across bushes, hanging them like tinsel on a Christmas tree, would now and again laugh and point with delight to the bits of bright color high in the trees. His neighbors shook their heads, traced little circles at their temples. Dementia was one of the words they used, senile was another, watching the old painter flinging strips of canvas from a sack, its strap crossing shoulder to hip, humming happily to himself.
When his children insisted he see a doctor, he explained to them that he had incurred an obligation to the birds, whose songs (though sung for some other purpose, he knew that, he assured them; of course, of course he knew that) had been woven throughout his entire life. The old painter saw fear on their faces, but oh, how he wanted them to understand! More than anything else he wanted them to understand!
He tried to explain it to them. One night, not long after he’d begun placing his colored bands on railings, shrubs, fences, he was awakened by a mockingbird in the garden and went outside. As the mockingbird sang in the voices of the other birds, one after another, over and over, it seemed to be conveying their gratitude, and somehow the old painter was given to understand that in the moment after his final breath, the birds would carry his spirit skyward, where somewhere high in the crown of the woods, among colorful nests, they would care for him until he could fly.
Copyright 2025 Richard Hoffman
Richard Hoffman’s many books include the memoir Half the House and the poetry collection Without Paradise. He is Emeritus Writer in Residence at Emerson College.
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Lovely 💖
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I poem this poem of Richard’s! Thank you.
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Richard’s piece is great, isn’t it?
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Coming home late from being away I just read this before going to bed: may it come back in my dreams…SO beautiful and moving…
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Yes, I love this simple story.
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And a shoutout to Richard Hoffman for his 2025 Pushcart Prize poem This Close. It’s a major contribution to grief poetry in general, and a fine remembrance of his “little” brother Robert James Hoffman. I’m stunned by its beauty.
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Yes, indeed, cutting up all the poems and hanging them up on bushes and trees to be found by the birds. Imagine the birds making nests with your poems, keeping the little ones snug, the parent birds tweeting their gratitude.
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Thank you, Richard, for this gorgeous, uplifting work of flash (pun intended!)… it is a balm and antidote to a stressful day. I just hope you don’t start cutting your own beautiful paintings into ribbons for the birds!
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Without meaning to be flippant, I first call Richard Hoffman’s artist: Johnny Appleseed for the Birds. But giving his fruits back to the birds, not taking them for humans to make applejack with, or hang on walls. The paper for his art was likely pulped from trees, perhaps creating a clear cut forest. So his art process eventually reverses to help birds nest. This is a wonderful paean to birds and new ways of looking at art. Expanding boundaries.
Meaning to be flippant: what force of nature will want the poems or colorful photos on my flashdrive?
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Hahaha!
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I am touched by this poignant piece and can relate to the idea of wanting my creative work to be of use to birds for their nests, listening to them singing while I wait for my wings. thank you
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Yes, I love this parable.
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I love this piece too! A flight of fancy? A homage to letting go? A plea for understanding? A song of the imagination? All this, I suspect, and more. It’s a shiny gem, a bowerbird’s prize, a triumph!
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Yes, a gem.
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A parable of relief: at a certain point he stopped giving a shit about the business of art. Love it.
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The poem is an awakening.
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How we long for our children to understand! The most important thing is that the painter understood
If I think about myself – my son and daughter would understand if I cut up all my poems and gave them to the birds…Nests of poetry for chicks to feel safe in…
I loved this piece.
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I love it too, Noelle.
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