BIO

James Hoch served as the Writer-in-Residence at St. Albans in 1999-2000. Hoch has been all over the world in both his travels and his jobs during his short (he's 33) life. He has worked as a cook, dishwasher, shepherd, and fisherman, amongst other occupations, and he has travelled to four continents to read his poetry.

Hoch, who earned an MFA at the University of Maryland, was nominated for a 2000 Pushcart Prize for a poem of his that appeared in Story. Hoch, who grew up not far from the homes of William Carlos Williams and Allen Ginsberg in New Jersey, currently teaches at Franklin and Marshall College in Lancaster, Pennsylvania.

We will also note that Hoch distinguished himself as a snow football all-star during his time at St. Albans. The six snow days St. Albans had last year allowed Hoch to showcase his gridiron ability out on the Little Field.

I cannot explain James Hoch. The only way to fully appreciate this magnanimous man is to get to know him or to see him read. Part Byronic hero, part James Dean, part Norman Mailer, Hoch is sharp, funny, compassionate, sensitive, quiet, loud, moody, dynamic, and larger-than-life. Perhaps the poem below does James Hoch justice. Or maybe you have to watch the man read his poem, witnessing him putting his all into every word, like Pete Sampras serving a tennis ball, to understand the essence of Hoch.

Some of my students may be able to relate to this poem, about a kid "dozing" in class. As one who was not always enchanted by his classes and teachers, I am able to see myself in this poem. That is part of the skill and beauty of James Hoch:

"Dozing"

It is what you learned in school
when you were young and loved
without question a girl an aisle away.
You put your head down on the desk,
balled your head into your arms,
until dark, until only the sound
of your heart against the wood
and a prayer for the skill of asking.
You would have stayed there all day,
undoing yourself from the din
of a winter afternoon, the way
you used to crawl into the slope
in the middle of your mother's bed,
curl up, slow your breathing to a lull,
stare at a blank wall, until your mind let go
for the immaculate white of a river
or a flight of snow geese creaking
overhead, then a voice like a bell
or hand came hard, beckoned you
from the willfullness of it all.
You might have gone on drifting,
to live in some other body,
but she stood above you, said
your name and It's dark. Get up.
So you rose half in and out
of a dream, staggered into the cut
of light the door formed, walked
outside, then filled your arms
with wood and paper for a fire
you would watch burn in on itself
.