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Application for Release from the Dream: Poems
The eagerly awaited, brilliant, and engaging new poems by Tony Hoagland, author of What Narcissism Means to Me
The parade for the slain police officer
goes past the bakery
and the smell of fresh bread
makes the mourners salivate against their will.
—from "Note to Reality"
Are we corrupt or innocent, fragmented or whole? Are responsibility and freedom irreconcilable? Do we value memory or succumb to our forgetfulness? Application for Release from the Dream, Tony Hoagland's fifth collection of poems, pursues these questions with the hobnailed abandon of one who needs to know how a citizen of twenty-first-century America can stay human. With whiplash nerve and tender curiosity, Hoagland both surveys the damage and finds the wonder that makes living worthwhile. Mirthful, fearless, and precise, these poems are full of judgment and mercy.
The parade for the slain police officer
goes past the bakery
and the smell of fresh bread
makes the mourners salivate against their will.
—from "Note to Reality"
Are we corrupt or innocent, fragmented or whole? Are responsibility and freedom irreconcilable? Do we value memory or succumb to our forgetfulness? Application for Release from the Dream, Tony Hoagland's fifth collection of poems, pursues these questions with the hobnailed abandon of one who needs to know how a citizen of twenty-first-century America can stay human. With whiplash nerve and tender curiosity, Hoagland both surveys the damage and finds the wonder that makes living worthwhile. Mirthful, fearless, and precise, these poems are full of judgment and mercy.
- GenresPoetry
96 pages, Paperback
First published September 1, 2015
27 people are currently reading
623 people want to read
About the author
Tony Hoagland
48 books187 followersTony Hoagland was born in Fort Bragg, North Carolina. He earned a BA from the University of Iowa and an MFA from the University of Arizona.
Hoagland was the author of the poetry collections Sweet Ruin (1992), which was chosen for the Brittingham Prize in Poetry and won the Zacharis Award from Emerson College; Donkey Gospel (1998), winner of the James Laughlin Award; What Narcissism Means to Me (2003), a finalist for the National Book Critics Circle Award; Rain (2005); Unincorporated Persons in the Late Honda Dynasty (2010); Application for Release from the Dream (2015); Recent Changes in the Vernacular (2017); and Priest Turned Therapist Treats Fear of God (2018).
He has also published two collections of essays about poetry: Real Sofistakashun (2006) and Twenty Poems That Could Save America and Other Essays (2014). Hoagland’s poetry is known for its acerbic, witty take on contemporary life and “straight talk,” in the words of New York Times reviewer Dwight Garner: “At his frequent best … Hoagland is demonically in touch with the American demotic.”
Hoagland’s many honors and awards included fellowships from the National Endowment for the Arts and the Provincetown Fine Arts Work Center. He received the O.B. Hardison Prize for Poetry and Teaching from the Folger Shakespeare Library, the Poetry Foundation’s Mark Twain Award, and the Jackson Poetry Prize from Poets & Writers. Hoagland taught at the University of Houston and in the Warren Wilson MFA program. He died in October 2018..
Hoagland was the author of the poetry collections Sweet Ruin (1992), which was chosen for the Brittingham Prize in Poetry and won the Zacharis Award from Emerson College; Donkey Gospel (1998), winner of the James Laughlin Award; What Narcissism Means to Me (2003), a finalist for the National Book Critics Circle Award; Rain (2005); Unincorporated Persons in the Late Honda Dynasty (2010); Application for Release from the Dream (2015); Recent Changes in the Vernacular (2017); and Priest Turned Therapist Treats Fear of God (2018).
He has also published two collections of essays about poetry: Real Sofistakashun (2006) and Twenty Poems That Could Save America and Other Essays (2014). Hoagland’s poetry is known for its acerbic, witty take on contemporary life and “straight talk,” in the words of New York Times reviewer Dwight Garner: “At his frequent best … Hoagland is demonically in touch with the American demotic.”
Hoagland’s many honors and awards included fellowships from the National Endowment for the Arts and the Provincetown Fine Arts Work Center. He received the O.B. Hardison Prize for Poetry and Teaching from the Folger Shakespeare Library, the Poetry Foundation’s Mark Twain Award, and the Jackson Poetry Prize from Poets & Writers. Hoagland taught at the University of Houston and in the Warren Wilson MFA program. He died in October 2018..
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 72 reviews
August 1, 2017
On the plus side, Tony Hoagland poems are dependable. Like pizza, maybe. And beer. On the minus side, no single poem in this collection completely bowled me over, finding its place in the pantheon of my personal Super Bowl-Me-Over works. But hey, that's asking too much, I suspect. One takes those things only when they come, unexpected-like, which makes them all the more pleasant. The worst thing you can do to a poet is read his book with high expectations.
Many adjectives come to mind when I think of the poems in this collection. A lot of bittersweet. Some wistful. A tablespoon of sardonic and sarcastic. Dashes of hopelessness. At times, the aroma of misanthropy. But humor in the air, too. All in all, a nice Chex mix of poetry snacks quite modern in their appeal.
Here are two sample poems from the collection:
Special Problems in Vocabulary
There is no single particular noun
for the way a friendship,
stretched over time, grows thin,
then one day snaps with a popping sound.
No verb for accidentally
breaking a thing
while trying to get it open
—a marriage, for example.
No participial phrase for
losing a book
in the middle of reading it,
and therefore never learning the end.
There is no expression, in English, at least,
for avoiding the sight
of your own body in the mirror,
for disliking the touch
of the afternoon sun,
for walking into the flatlands and dust
that stretch out before you
after your adventures are done.
No adjective for gradually speaking less and less,
because you have stopped being able
to say the one thing that would
break your life loose from its grip.
Certainly no name that one can imagine
for the aspen tree outside the kitchen window,
in spade-shaped leaves
spinning on their stems,
working themselves into
a pale-green, vegetable blur.
No word for waking up one morning
and looking around,
because the mysterious spirit
that drives all things
seems to have returned,
and is on your side again.
There Is No Word
There isn’t a word for walking out of the grocery store
with a gallon jug of milk in a plastic sack
that should have been bagged in double layers
—so that before you are even out the door
you feel the weight of the jug dragging
the bag down, stretching the thin
plastic handles longer and longer
and you know it’s only a matter of time until
bottom suddenly splits.
There is no single, unimpeachable word
for that vague sensation of something
moving away from you
as it exceeds its elastic capacity
—which is too bad, because that is the word
I would like to use to describe standing on the street
chatting with an old friend
as the awareness grows in me that he is
no longer a friend, but only an acquaintance,
a person with whom I never made the effort—
until this moment, when as we say goodbye
I think we share a feeling of relief,
a recognition that we have reached
the end of a pretense,
though to tell the truth
what I already am thinking about
is my gratitude for language—
how it will stretch just so much and no farther;
how there are some holes it will not cover up;
how it will move, if not inside, then
around the circumference of almost anything—
how, over the years, it has given me
back all the hours and days, all the
plodding love and faith, all the
misunderstandings and secrets
I have willingly poured into it.
Many adjectives come to mind when I think of the poems in this collection. A lot of bittersweet. Some wistful. A tablespoon of sardonic and sarcastic. Dashes of hopelessness. At times, the aroma of misanthropy. But humor in the air, too. All in all, a nice Chex mix of poetry snacks quite modern in their appeal.
Here are two sample poems from the collection:
Special Problems in Vocabulary
There is no single particular noun
for the way a friendship,
stretched over time, grows thin,
then one day snaps with a popping sound.
No verb for accidentally
breaking a thing
while trying to get it open
—a marriage, for example.
No participial phrase for
losing a book
in the middle of reading it,
and therefore never learning the end.
There is no expression, in English, at least,
for avoiding the sight
of your own body in the mirror,
for disliking the touch
of the afternoon sun,
for walking into the flatlands and dust
that stretch out before you
after your adventures are done.
No adjective for gradually speaking less and less,
because you have stopped being able
to say the one thing that would
break your life loose from its grip.
Certainly no name that one can imagine
for the aspen tree outside the kitchen window,
in spade-shaped leaves
spinning on their stems,
working themselves into
a pale-green, vegetable blur.
No word for waking up one morning
and looking around,
because the mysterious spirit
that drives all things
seems to have returned,
and is on your side again.
There Is No Word
There isn’t a word for walking out of the grocery store
with a gallon jug of milk in a plastic sack
that should have been bagged in double layers
—so that before you are even out the door
you feel the weight of the jug dragging
the bag down, stretching the thin
plastic handles longer and longer
and you know it’s only a matter of time until
bottom suddenly splits.
There is no single, unimpeachable word
for that vague sensation of something
moving away from you
as it exceeds its elastic capacity
—which is too bad, because that is the word
I would like to use to describe standing on the street
chatting with an old friend
as the awareness grows in me that he is
no longer a friend, but only an acquaintance,
a person with whom I never made the effort—
until this moment, when as we say goodbye
I think we share a feeling of relief,
a recognition that we have reached
the end of a pretense,
though to tell the truth
what I already am thinking about
is my gratitude for language—
how it will stretch just so much and no farther;
how there are some holes it will not cover up;
how it will move, if not inside, then
around the circumference of almost anything—
how, over the years, it has given me
back all the hours and days, all the
plodding love and faith, all the
misunderstandings and secrets
I have willingly poured into it.
April 23, 2018
I think I've found my poetry equivalent of Kurt Vonnegut. Hoagland approaches really complex and often dark subjects with a dry wit and satirical humor while still making you realize that he cares. I enjoyed these a lot and will be looking for more of his poetry.
Since it's Earth Day today I thought I would include a bit from a poem about the earth...
While you were watching the pretty pictures,
and drinking a perfectly innocent Pepsi-Cola
-your world, and that of your children
and their children, and the beasts of the fields,
and the green, green Earth itself,
had been stolen.
Since it's Earth Day today I thought I would include a bit from a poem about the earth...
While you were watching the pretty pictures,
and drinking a perfectly innocent Pepsi-Cola
-your world, and that of your children
and their children, and the beasts of the fields,
and the green, green Earth itself,
had been stolen.
July 7, 2016
Something about Hoagland's voice just rankles me. It's only in a few specific poems, but it's enough to spoil my whole understanding/interest in his collections. I dunno. It might be more what I'm bringing to the table as a reader, but...ug
January 17, 2016
Oh I love me some Tony Hoagland. What a way of seeing the world.
May 5, 2025
A revelation. Will change me forever.
March 10, 2018
Gorgeous book of poetry. I hadn't read much of him before and was wonderfully surprised. His poems grapple with the pain and suffering of life head on, without being overwrought. He just gives life a good shake, and closely observes it, finding beauty in the mundane.
June 21, 2016
Aaron Copland or John Cage? Why do I have to choose?
March 13, 2017
Hoagland is one of my favorites among contemporary poets, though I’ve liked some collections more than others. I think this is one of the better ones. I really liked What Narcissism Means to Me, but this one may surpass it. Hoagland, a stranger neither to anger nor sadness nor awe, explores the interplay, the push and pull, between the personal and cultural realms — the ways that we as individuals with all of our passions, beliefs, hopes, failings (and recognition of our looming mortality) are shaped by and react to the realities of the world in this oh-so-confusing present. The poet uses anecdotes and details of everyday modern life to explore what it means to be human and how far can we trust ourselves to be humane. He is cynical, self-critical, intense, and illuminating.
The collection also stands as a good example of the necessary connections between the personal and the political. (“Like it or not, oneself is always the test case for the human condition.”) Hoagland addresses some difficult topics (race relations in present-day America, class inequalities, corruption, suffering) and the collection strikes me as a wake-up call, leading us gently or not-so-gently to face up to the realities of the present and prospects for the future, to examine our own responses to what’s going on around us. At the same time, Hoagland shares and encourages an acceptance of the way things are. No, we’re not the greatest country in the world, the greatest show on earth, and our individual efforts don’t mean much in the grand scheme of things, but it’s important — it’s critical — to keep learning, saying, trying. Making the effort to be a responsible person in the world is meaning enough.
The poems are easy to read and sometimes Hoagland’s informal and conversational style belies his deeper and darker themes. Yet the poems constantly delight us with unexpected wit.
This is my favorite kind of weather, this cloudy autumn-ness—
when long wool coats make shoplifting easy. . . .
— from “Application for Release from the Dream”
There is . . .
No verb for accidentally
breaking a thing
while trying to get it open
— a marriage, for example.
— From “Special Problems in Vocabulary”
The reality TV show brought together fat white Alabama policemen
and African American families from
Detroit
to live together on a custom-made plantation for a month.
America: stupidity plus enthusiasm is a special kind of genius.
— from “Eventually the Topic”
“The surgeons compare the human heart to an engine;
the car mechanics compare the engine to a heart.
The metaphor works for both of them. . . .”
— from “Eventually the Topic”
Obviously, it’s a category I’ve been made aware of
from time to time.
It’s been pointed out that my characters eat a lot of
lightly braised asparagus
and get FedEx packages almost daily.
Yet I dislike being thought of as a white writer.
When I find my books in the White Literature section of
the bookstore,
or when I get invited to speak on “The State of White
Writing in America. . . .”
— from “White Writer”
“Ode to the Republic” is a poem that I read earlier online and have since read many times. That’s probably my favorite here and one of my favorite poems, period. And it’s a shining example of the tenderness that goes hand-in-hand with Hoagland’s critique of contemporary life: “My country, ’tis of thee I sing.” I would quote further, but it’s much better to read the entire poem.
Another favorite is “The Hero’s Journey,” that ends with the fair knight Gawain camped for a night beside a cemetery. In the morning, he’ll gallop back to safety, having learned however that,
the glory of the protagonist is always paid for
by a lot of minor characters. . . .
. . . now he knows
there is a country he had not accounted for,
and that country has its citizens:
the one-armed baker sweeping out his shop at 4 a.m.;
the prisoner sweating in his narrow cell;
and that woman in the nursing home,
who has worked there for a thousand
years,
taking away the bedpans,
lifting up and wiping off the soft heroic buttocks of Odysseus.
Hoagland is a joy to read, a poet of great wit, wisdom, humor, and humanity. Trying to do the book justice in this brief review just makes me want to read the whole thing again.
The collection also stands as a good example of the necessary connections between the personal and the political. (“Like it or not, oneself is always the test case for the human condition.”) Hoagland addresses some difficult topics (race relations in present-day America, class inequalities, corruption, suffering) and the collection strikes me as a wake-up call, leading us gently or not-so-gently to face up to the realities of the present and prospects for the future, to examine our own responses to what’s going on around us. At the same time, Hoagland shares and encourages an acceptance of the way things are. No, we’re not the greatest country in the world, the greatest show on earth, and our individual efforts don’t mean much in the grand scheme of things, but it’s important — it’s critical — to keep learning, saying, trying. Making the effort to be a responsible person in the world is meaning enough.
The poems are easy to read and sometimes Hoagland’s informal and conversational style belies his deeper and darker themes. Yet the poems constantly delight us with unexpected wit.
This is my favorite kind of weather, this cloudy autumn-ness—
when long wool coats make shoplifting easy. . . .
— from “Application for Release from the Dream”
There is . . .
No verb for accidentally
breaking a thing
while trying to get it open
— a marriage, for example.
— From “Special Problems in Vocabulary”
The reality TV show brought together fat white Alabama policemen
and African American families from
Detroit
to live together on a custom-made plantation for a month.
America: stupidity plus enthusiasm is a special kind of genius.
— from “Eventually the Topic”
“The surgeons compare the human heart to an engine;
the car mechanics compare the engine to a heart.
The metaphor works for both of them. . . .”
— from “Eventually the Topic”
Obviously, it’s a category I’ve been made aware of
from time to time.
It’s been pointed out that my characters eat a lot of
lightly braised asparagus
and get FedEx packages almost daily.
Yet I dislike being thought of as a white writer.
When I find my books in the White Literature section of
the bookstore,
or when I get invited to speak on “The State of White
Writing in America. . . .”
— from “White Writer”
“Ode to the Republic” is a poem that I read earlier online and have since read many times. That’s probably my favorite here and one of my favorite poems, period. And it’s a shining example of the tenderness that goes hand-in-hand with Hoagland’s critique of contemporary life: “My country, ’tis of thee I sing.” I would quote further, but it’s much better to read the entire poem.
Another favorite is “The Hero’s Journey,” that ends with the fair knight Gawain camped for a night beside a cemetery. In the morning, he’ll gallop back to safety, having learned however that,
the glory of the protagonist is always paid for
by a lot of minor characters. . . .
. . . now he knows
there is a country he had not accounted for,
and that country has its citizens:
the one-armed baker sweeping out his shop at 4 a.m.;
the prisoner sweating in his narrow cell;
and that woman in the nursing home,
who has worked there for a thousand
years,
taking away the bedpans,
lifting up and wiping off the soft heroic buttocks of Odysseus.
Hoagland is a joy to read, a poet of great wit, wisdom, humor, and humanity. Trying to do the book justice in this brief review just makes me want to read the whole thing again.
February 9, 2017
I was really looking forward to this, having read Unincorporated Persons in the Late Honda Dynasty last year...and I was a little disappointed this time around. Maybe I just didn't get Hoagland as well in this collection...but more often than not he seemed part sage and part bitter old man yelling nonsense at clouds. I got a sense that some pieces felt rushed or unfinished, and endings were often harsh and abrupt. I'll no doubt read it again down the road, but today...this just wasn't what I was looking for or expecting, I guess.
I will say that the title poem was indeed a standout, and the final five lines in "Controlled Substances" read to me almost like it should be my theme song. "A Little Consideration" was very enjoyable...I'd also recommend "Ode to the Republic", "Special Problems in Vocabulary"/"There Is No Word" (felt like these were companion pieces), "Little Champion", "The Social Life of Water", and "Real Estate".
The book had a promising start, but quickly deterred into a meandering, bitter word tapioca. I really loved "Honda Dynasty" though, and I'm intrigued by some of his essay work.
I will say that the title poem was indeed a standout, and the final five lines in "Controlled Substances" read to me almost like it should be my theme song. "A Little Consideration" was very enjoyable...I'd also recommend "Ode to the Republic", "Special Problems in Vocabulary"/"There Is No Word" (felt like these were companion pieces), "Little Champion", "The Social Life of Water", and "Real Estate".
The book had a promising start, but quickly deterred into a meandering, bitter word tapioca. I really loved "Honda Dynasty" though, and I'm intrigued by some of his essay work.
June 25, 2017
In 2010, I swore that I wouldn't purchase another of Hoagland's books. Unfortunately, my memory sucks.
A couple of weeks ago, an older man in the waiting room at the Doctor's office kept being loudly rude to others in the room - making fun of tattoos, people using cellphones, the color of one woman's skin. At one point, when trying to engage me in conversation (after being extremely rude to me), he said that he has never read poetry - didn't see much of a use in it. This poetry would be right up his alley.
Certainly, there are brilliant moments here. Some of the poems are truly great. But for the most part, this is old white man yelling at children to get off of his lawn poems. The bitterness here is palpable. And I get it. (Well, to a point...) But it makes for some really boring poetry in my opinion.
A couple of weeks ago, an older man in the waiting room at the Doctor's office kept being loudly rude to others in the room - making fun of tattoos, people using cellphones, the color of one woman's skin. At one point, when trying to engage me in conversation (after being extremely rude to me), he said that he has never read poetry - didn't see much of a use in it. This poetry would be right up his alley.
Certainly, there are brilliant moments here. Some of the poems are truly great. But for the most part, this is old white man yelling at children to get off of his lawn poems. The bitterness here is palpable. And I get it. (Well, to a point...) But it makes for some really boring poetry in my opinion.
August 23, 2019
This collection was easy to get a lot out of because they aren't written to baffle you into submission with abstraction and obscurity. He's great on male behavior, the U.S.A., and breaking up. Worth reading again someday.
They are funny and approachable enough to make you want to show to non poetry readers. The one about the men crawling back was great and the one that followed about his wife screaming underwater were certainly memorable.
They are funny and approachable enough to make you want to show to non poetry readers. The one about the men crawling back was great and the one that followed about his wife screaming underwater were certainly memorable.
May 15, 2017
Hoagland is as sharp as ever in this newest collection. With every successive book, he seems to grow more incisive and smarter--more sincere and more biting. But with these latest poems, that trademark bite feels older, and wiser, and the poet himself surely is. If you're a fan of Hoagland at all, this is a must-read.
September 6, 2015
Heartbreaking
This collection is haunting and exhilarating at the same time. I love and will never forget these poems. Read this book!
This collection is haunting and exhilarating at the same time. I love and will never forget these poems. Read this book!
March 9, 2016
Tony lost me with What Narcissism Means to Me, but he has won back my heart with this book. I am already rereading it.
January 23, 2023
Way too prosaic for my taste.
June 18, 2016
Loved it--harsh, tender, ironic, meaningful . . . everything I expect from a Hoagland book!
Read
October 6, 2023What’s interesting in my reading of “Application for Release from the Dream” by Tony Hoagland - which I both liked and disliked - is that I had no idea what I was reading. I found it on my tablet one night and, with no memory of why it was there, started it. This put me in a space of curiosity in which I haven’t been in a long time, as I usually know why I’m reading what I’m reading. So I was mesmerized to find some lines I really liked, poems full of both sadness and wonder, searching for the meaning of life (I read biographies because I want to know how people suffered / in the past; how they endured, and is it different, now, for us?), be they existentially full of dread (So I’ve grown up to be one of those people / who gets angry at trees / for behaving like trees, / who kneels in hotel rooms and bangs his head / softly against the carpet, asking for help, / another kind of room service.) or hope, or kindness (Please Don’t / tell the flowers—they think / the sun loves them.).
In Hoagland’s poetry, things suddenly connect (All water is a part of other water. / Cloud talks to lake; mist / speaks quietly to creek.) and make sense (It’s about getting tempered, like a sword held in the fire. / It’s about getting cooked in the oven, like a loaf of bread. / One day when the smoke clears, / then, when that day comes, then— / we will use the sword to cut the bread.). But then, amidst this vivid view of life, I found social commentary on race and gender that’s just… Well, I won’t go into it. Suffice it to say, I then googled his name and remembered why I had downloaded his book. It was probably because of his exchange with Claudia Rankine who analyzed the racial politics of his poem “The Change”. Well, the racial and gender politics get even worse in some of the poems from this book. Sure, Hoagland seems to try to navigate these topics critically, but does he succeed? Not really. So I’m left asking myself now - what do I even think about the other poems? Again the question of what to do with the “art”. Not so much because it’s art, but because of its meaning, because the poems still hold beauty, no doubt.
Here’s an excerpt from Rankine’s essay: “For so long I thought the ambition of racist language was to denigrate and erase me as a person, but after considering Butler's remarks I begin to understand myself as rendered hyper-visible in the face of such language acts. Language that feels hurtful is intended to exploit all the ways that I am present.” You can read the whole essay here: https://poets.org/text/open-letter-di...
In Hoagland’s poetry, things suddenly connect (All water is a part of other water. / Cloud talks to lake; mist / speaks quietly to creek.) and make sense (It’s about getting tempered, like a sword held in the fire. / It’s about getting cooked in the oven, like a loaf of bread. / One day when the smoke clears, / then, when that day comes, then— / we will use the sword to cut the bread.). But then, amidst this vivid view of life, I found social commentary on race and gender that’s just… Well, I won’t go into it. Suffice it to say, I then googled his name and remembered why I had downloaded his book. It was probably because of his exchange with Claudia Rankine who analyzed the racial politics of his poem “The Change”. Well, the racial and gender politics get even worse in some of the poems from this book. Sure, Hoagland seems to try to navigate these topics critically, but does he succeed? Not really. So I’m left asking myself now - what do I even think about the other poems? Again the question of what to do with the “art”. Not so much because it’s art, but because of its meaning, because the poems still hold beauty, no doubt.
Here’s an excerpt from Rankine’s essay: “For so long I thought the ambition of racist language was to denigrate and erase me as a person, but after considering Butler's remarks I begin to understand myself as rendered hyper-visible in the face of such language acts. Language that feels hurtful is intended to exploit all the ways that I am present.” You can read the whole essay here: https://poets.org/text/open-letter-di...
August 27, 2024
I really enjoyed the sideways and odd perspective of many of these poems - e.g. "Coming and Going:"
"My marriage ended in an airport parking lot - so long ago.
I was not wise enough to cry while looking for my car,
walking through the underground garage;
jets were roaring overhead, and if I had been wise
I would have looked up at those heavy-bellied cylinders,
and see the wheelchairs and the frightened dogs inside,
the kidneys bedded down in dry ice and Styrofoam containers,
I would have known that in synagogues and churches all over town
couples were gathering like flocks of geese
getting ready to take off, while here the jets were putting down
their gear, getting ready for the jolt, the giant tires
shrieking and scraping off two
long streaks of rubber molecules -
that might have been my wife and I, screaming in our fear..."
And likewise I enjoyed that these poems keep coming back to the theme of waking up from the dream and realizing things, e.g. "Song For Picking Up:"
"Every time that something falls
someone is consigned to pick it up...
After the marching feet of all humanity
come the brooms and mops, the garbage men
and moms, the janitors.
One day you notice them.
After that, you understand.
After that, then, no more easy litter.
No more towels
upon the hotel bathroom floor. You bend over
for even tiny bits of paper,
or bitterly, you look back at your life - like Cain,
upon the body of his brother."
A good solid book of poetry.
-
"My marriage ended in an airport parking lot - so long ago.
I was not wise enough to cry while looking for my car,
walking through the underground garage;
jets were roaring overhead, and if I had been wise
I would have looked up at those heavy-bellied cylinders,
and see the wheelchairs and the frightened dogs inside,
the kidneys bedded down in dry ice and Styrofoam containers,
I would have known that in synagogues and churches all over town
couples were gathering like flocks of geese
getting ready to take off, while here the jets were putting down
their gear, getting ready for the jolt, the giant tires
shrieking and scraping off two
long streaks of rubber molecules -
that might have been my wife and I, screaming in our fear..."
And likewise I enjoyed that these poems keep coming back to the theme of waking up from the dream and realizing things, e.g. "Song For Picking Up:"
"Every time that something falls
someone is consigned to pick it up...
After the marching feet of all humanity
come the brooms and mops, the garbage men
and moms, the janitors.
One day you notice them.
After that, you understand.
After that, then, no more easy litter.
No more towels
upon the hotel bathroom floor. You bend over
for even tiny bits of paper,
or bitterly, you look back at your life - like Cain,
upon the body of his brother."
A good solid book of poetry.
-
May 15, 2024
life continues to teach me how much every human life experiences trauma. just some people get their first taste later, when hopefully they can already bear it. i think Tony Hoagland had a pretty chill life for a good share of life but don’t quote me on that.
this book was written when he was in the earlier stages of his protracted and brutal run with cancer and his poetry was so much better for it (not that that’s worth it, getting and dying of cancer so your poetry can be better) -- but there is something gorgeous about how it seemed to have cracked another level of artistry out from him. his base level of technique - clever turns, keen observational wit - is of course here, and then also the ineffable heart of the Something Else, which is for so many of us most easily accessed through deep and grievous pain.
somehow all of his poems that I love seem inflected with the lessons of cancer even if not about cancer. cancer as metaphor, but in a way that is deep like only a patient would know. my housemate sends me this line that we both love immediately: "may your shame be cushioned by the oldest chemotherapy: stage after stage of acceptance."
this book was written when he was in the earlier stages of his protracted and brutal run with cancer and his poetry was so much better for it (not that that’s worth it, getting and dying of cancer so your poetry can be better) -- but there is something gorgeous about how it seemed to have cracked another level of artistry out from him. his base level of technique - clever turns, keen observational wit - is of course here, and then also the ineffable heart of the Something Else, which is for so many of us most easily accessed through deep and grievous pain.
somehow all of his poems that I love seem inflected with the lessons of cancer even if not about cancer. cancer as metaphor, but in a way that is deep like only a patient would know. my housemate sends me this line that we both love immediately: "may your shame be cushioned by the oldest chemotherapy: stage after stage of acceptance."
August 6, 2017
I love Tony Hoagland, I love Tony Hoagland, I love Tony Hoagland.
Who else gives us this vision of the U.S., with humor and passion and absolutely no sentimentality?
"The reality TV show brought together fat white Alabama policemen
and African American families from Detroit
to live together on a custom-made plantation for a month.
America: stupidity plus enthusiasm is a special kind of genius."
Or,
"'Bombing that city was a terrible mistake,'
the four-star general says on television,
'but it taught me a lot about myself.'
Maybe he should give a medal to his therapist."
But also,
"A morning shower
has knocked down blossoms from the honeysuckle bush into the grass
like little ivory trumpets.
Because there is no one better qualified around,
because it is Houston
you are the one who gets to kneel
upon the buckled sidewalk
and look at them in silence."
Who else gives us this vision of the U.S., with humor and passion and absolutely no sentimentality?
"The reality TV show brought together fat white Alabama policemen
and African American families from Detroit
to live together on a custom-made plantation for a month.
America: stupidity plus enthusiasm is a special kind of genius."
Or,
"'Bombing that city was a terrible mistake,'
the four-star general says on television,
'but it taught me a lot about myself.'
Maybe he should give a medal to his therapist."
But also,
"A morning shower
has knocked down blossoms from the honeysuckle bush into the grass
like little ivory trumpets.
Because there is no one better qualified around,
because it is Houston
you are the one who gets to kneel
upon the buckled sidewalk
and look at them in silence."
October 11, 2020
This is the first book of poetry that I have ever read. I cannot describe how great a pleasure it was to read these poems. I imagined, as I was reading these poems, one after the other, that I was getting high on them. Honestly, I cannot describe a more sublime reading experience that I have had in a long time, except for reading perhaps Raymond Chandler's "The Long Goodbye," which I read a long time ago. I kept asking myself, "how does he do it?" And, "how could someone compose such incredible art and do so page after page after page?" But the key question I asked myself was, "could I ever do it? Could I ever write like this? Be an artist like this?" And the answer I arrived at was "no, leave it to the experts. Get a job and live long enough in New York to enjoy the arts in the city, especially once things get going again after we finally have a vaccine for this damn novel corona virus." So, that is my strategy going forward. I hope and pray that it works out.
January 30, 2023
Such a wonderful read after a really long time. Truly deserved award-winning poetry!
"The reason for suffering isn’t some bad choice you made, or something you did wrong, it isn’t anybody’s fault; it just exists, it is a condition of this place; and the only purpose that it serves is that it wakes us up, at certain moments in our lives, it rouses us to get up on our feet and find the door."
"I keep the wise books on my shelves, and take them down to read, but I no longer believe in their power to transform."
" the flaring force of this thing we call identity as if it were a message, a burning coal one carries in one’s mouth for sixty years, for delivery to whom, exactly; to where?"
" All those years I kept trying and failing and trying to find my one special talent in this life— Why did it take me so long to figure out that my special talent was trying?"
Simple and amazing writing. Kudos to the poet!
"The reason for suffering isn’t some bad choice you made, or something you did wrong, it isn’t anybody’s fault; it just exists, it is a condition of this place; and the only purpose that it serves is that it wakes us up, at certain moments in our lives, it rouses us to get up on our feet and find the door."
"I keep the wise books on my shelves, and take them down to read, but I no longer believe in their power to transform."
" the flaring force of this thing we call identity as if it were a message, a burning coal one carries in one’s mouth for sixty years, for delivery to whom, exactly; to where?"
" All those years I kept trying and failing and trying to find my one special talent in this life— Why did it take me so long to figure out that my special talent was trying?"
Simple and amazing writing. Kudos to the poet!
This entire review has been hidden because of spoilers.
July 17, 2019
There is just one poetry book I read over and over.
This one.
Tony Hoagland made me fall in love again with writing poetry that you want to write -- not the shit you think you have to write. His poems are raw, real, and accessible.
There are some that make you want to throw that book against the wall and scream "Why can't I write like that?"
There are poems that you remember for months. Years.
There are poems that reach into you and rip out your insides.
There are poems that make you think differently and, for me, write differently.
This book will make you think Hoagland was watching you as you lived your life. They're that relatable, that real.
This one.
Tony Hoagland made me fall in love again with writing poetry that you want to write -- not the shit you think you have to write. His poems are raw, real, and accessible.
There are some that make you want to throw that book against the wall and scream "Why can't I write like that?"
There are poems that you remember for months. Years.
There are poems that reach into you and rip out your insides.
There are poems that make you think differently and, for me, write differently.
This book will make you think Hoagland was watching you as you lived your life. They're that relatable, that real.
July 28, 2017
Absolutely mesmerizing modern poetry. I do love reading fiction, but poetry is succinct and that gives it a beauty and wit separate and apart from the novel.
From "Aubade"
. . . ."And we still love each other, in a way that makes us
tolerant, alert, perhaps a little vain
but also, we are getting older.
Come over here, darling,
and put your hand on my head
and tell me if you think this is a tumor."
From "Aubade"
. . . ."And we still love each other, in a way that makes us
tolerant, alert, perhaps a little vain
but also, we are getting older.
Come over here, darling,
and put your hand on my head
and tell me if you think this is a tumor."
April 30, 2023
I like Hoagland. He's become one of my absolute favorite poets. His work is always good, sometimes great. He's enjoyable and accessible to read, and usually makes you think. Those are the characteristics that I like in poetry.
I will admit that the more poetry I read (and that is almost exclusively what I read), the fewer poets resonate with me. Hoagland, however, never fails. He is the poet that I would recommend to anyone interested in poetry.
I will admit that the more poetry I read (and that is almost exclusively what I read), the fewer poets resonate with me. Hoagland, however, never fails. He is the poet that I would recommend to anyone interested in poetry.
May 4, 2024
Tony Hoagland seems to speak directly to me. He has this way of taking you on a journey - he describes his surroundings and takes you somewhere then drops, suddenly, into a message so clear, so poignant, and often so heart wrenching. You only read something for the first time, once. So I’ll savour it.
Crazy Motherfucker weather
Faulkner
Wasp
The Complex Sentence
The Story of the Mexican Housekeeper
Summer Dusk
Note to Reality
Crazy Motherfucker weather
Faulkner
Wasp
The Complex Sentence
The Story of the Mexican Housekeeper
Summer Dusk
Note to Reality
January 26, 2018
3.5* I still admire Hoagland's way with words. He makes verse look so, so easy. I enjoyed several lines and stanzas within this collection, however, as a whole, it wasn't for me. These poems were just a bit too political for my taste. My favorites were: "The Social Life of Water", "Because It Is Houston", and "Update" (for its Red Wheel Barrow twist).
February 21, 2018
I bought this collection simply because I love Hoagland's poem "Personal" (which does not appear in this book).
Standouts:
Ode to the Republic
Special Problems in Vocabulary
Little Champion (reminds of a Faith Shearin "Wikipedia" poem)
But the Men
The Complex Sentence
Fetch
There Is No Word
Standouts:
Ode to the Republic
Special Problems in Vocabulary
Little Champion (reminds of a Faith Shearin "Wikipedia" poem)
But the Men
The Complex Sentence
Fetch
There Is No Word
January 16, 2019
Down to earth
I read this book by Tony Hoagland because, upon his death, a friend posted on FB about how much she liked his work and would miss looking forward to his new poems. I like it too, and understand her feeling. His language is uncluttered and captures everyday experience in a refreshing way.
I read this book by Tony Hoagland because, upon his death, a friend posted on FB about how much she liked his work and would miss looking forward to his new poems. I like it too, and understand her feeling. His language is uncluttered and captures everyday experience in a refreshing way.
July 4, 2021
I found this book in a small bookstore on Washington Island, Wisconsin.
There are poems in here that are so very good I read them out loud: "Ode to the Republic," "But the Men," and "Real Estate."
Tony makes me laugh and think. I would love to write to him, but he died too young.
I miss his voice.
There are poems in here that are so very good I read them out loud: "Ode to the Republic," "But the Men," and "Real Estate."
Tony makes me laugh and think. I would love to write to him, but he died too young.
I miss his voice.
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