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Priest Turned Therapist Treats Fear of God
Tony Hoagland's poems interrogate human nature and contemporary culture with an intimate and wild urgency, located somewhere between outrage, stand-up comedy, and grief. His new poems are no less observant of the human and the worldly, no less sceptical, and no less amusing, but they have drifted toward the greater depths of open emotion. Over six collections, Hoagland’s poetry has become bigger, more tender, and more encompassing. The poems in Priest Turned Therapist Treats Fear of God turn his clear-eyed vision toward the hidden spaces – and spaciousness – in the human predicament. Tony Hoagland's poems poke and provoke at the same time as they entertain and delight. He is American poetry's hilarious 'high priest of irony', a wisecracker and a risk-taker whose disarming humour, self-scathing and tenderness are all fuelled by an aggressive moral intelligence. He pushes the poem not just to its limits but over the edge. This UK edition of Priest Turned Therapist Treats Fear of God also includes additional poems from another recent US collection of his poetry, Recent Changes in the Vernacular (2017).
- GenresPoetryAdultNonfiction
104 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 2018
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About the author
Tony Hoagland
48 books191 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 82 reviews
June 15, 2019
This little book stabbed me in the heart more than once. Each poem contained at least one line that resonated and made me feel.
When I started this book I didn't realize that the author had passed away. However, this book, from the start quickly made me realize here was a person who knew they were coming to the end of their days. The hope, sadness, wisdom, love, fear, hope and acceptance played through these poems in a rhythmic manner of one finding their peace.
I loved these poems, for all the pain and sadness they contained, because they were real and touched on a human existence of wonder and a love of Life.
Part I:
Very poignant and lovely poems of the small wonders around us every day, the waste we are making of our world, the important things we overlook. In every poem, I find at least one line or one expression that is perfectly worded and resonates. These poems are all thought provoking, interesting, visual and a part of today's world.
I enjoyed all the poems in this section. My favorite is The Romance of the Tree.
Part II:
In The Waiting Room With Leonard Cohen stabbed me in the heart.
This entire section is heart wrenching.
Loved the optimism of Better Than Expected.
Part III:
Pain. Sadness. A touch of fear? So beautifully worded and expressed. My heart is hurting through this section.
Favorite: Taking My Medicine. This poem touched me in so many ways.
Part IV:
Acceptance. So sad and yet so touching.
When I started this book I didn't realize that the author had passed away. However, this book, from the start quickly made me realize here was a person who knew they were coming to the end of their days. The hope, sadness, wisdom, love, fear, hope and acceptance played through these poems in a rhythmic manner of one finding their peace.
I loved these poems, for all the pain and sadness they contained, because they were real and touched on a human existence of wonder and a love of Life.
Part I:
Very poignant and lovely poems of the small wonders around us every day, the waste we are making of our world, the important things we overlook. In every poem, I find at least one line or one expression that is perfectly worded and resonates. These poems are all thought provoking, interesting, visual and a part of today's world.
I enjoyed all the poems in this section. My favorite is The Romance of the Tree.
Part II:
In The Waiting Room With Leonard Cohen stabbed me in the heart.
This entire section is heart wrenching.
Loved the optimism of Better Than Expected.
Part III:
Pain. Sadness. A touch of fear? So beautifully worded and expressed. My heart is hurting through this section.
Favorite: Taking My Medicine. This poem touched me in so many ways.
Part IV:
Acceptance. So sad and yet so touching.
Read
June 17, 2018This one's a bit bumpier a ride than past Hoagland poetry collections, but there are some poignant ones related to cancer.
One online available at The Sun follows:
Upward
With the help of Zen,
my old friend Jack
dissolved his disagreements
with the world,
purified his quarrels,
shushed his ego,
stopped biting back
when bitten,
and gradually had
no opinions
other than wise ones.
And so our friendship
lost its bones and meatiness,
because it is clear to
me that I
am not going to humanly
improve
but will be
forever benighted
by shadow and abrasion.
I will keep eating my experience
with a certain
indigestion and
shitting out opinions
to the end.
Goodbye, my friend, goodbye, I say
quietly to myself
like a character
in some science-fiction novel
as I watch the
smooth spaceships of Zen
slip the heavy harness
of the earth
and rise into the weightlessness
of space,
leaving a few
hundred million of us
behind,
weeping and holding on
to our stormy weather
and our extended
allegiance to stones.
One online available at The Sun follows:
Upward
With the help of Zen,
my old friend Jack
dissolved his disagreements
with the world,
purified his quarrels,
shushed his ego,
stopped biting back
when bitten,
and gradually had
no opinions
other than wise ones.
And so our friendship
lost its bones and meatiness,
because it is clear to
me that I
am not going to humanly
improve
but will be
forever benighted
by shadow and abrasion.
I will keep eating my experience
with a certain
indigestion and
shitting out opinions
to the end.
Goodbye, my friend, goodbye, I say
quietly to myself
like a character
in some science-fiction novel
as I watch the
smooth spaceships of Zen
slip the heavy harness
of the earth
and rise into the weightlessness
of space,
leaving a few
hundred million of us
behind,
weeping and holding on
to our stormy weather
and our extended
allegiance to stones.
April 20, 2019
This was the second book of Tony Hoagland's poems that I read. It's his last book; he died of pancreatic cancer in 2018 at age 64. As I wrote in my review of What Narcissism Means to Me, I discovered him through a poem published in The New Yorker after his death, and then his book titles exerted their pull.
I didn't read his poetry straight through but, rather, one or two every night or so. These I struggled with more than the first book. I thought I didn't like more of them. But when I looked again, I did like them.
Since I was reading these, it occurred to me that now I was a poetry lover. But when I read about another poet, looked up his work, and tried to read it, no; I didn't like it.
Tony Hoagland's poetry is idiosyncratic yet universal. It is from his heart and strikes the heart of the reader. It's the opposite of esoteric.
Here's another:
What a gift it is to tell the truth--and hear the truth.
I didn't read his poetry straight through but, rather, one or two every night or so. These I struggled with more than the first book. I thought I didn't like more of them. But when I looked again, I did like them.
Since I was reading these, it occurred to me that now I was a poetry lover. But when I read about another poet, looked up his work, and tried to read it, no; I didn't like it.
Tony Hoagland's poetry is idiosyncratic yet universal. It is from his heart and strikes the heart of the reader. It's the opposite of esoteric.
DISTANT REGARD
If I knew I would be dead by this time next year
I believe I would spend the months from now till then
writing thank-you notes to strangers and acquaintances,
telling them, "You really were a great travel agent."
Or "I never got the taste of your kisses out of my mouth."
Or "Watching you walk across the room was part of my destination."
It would be the equivalent, I think,
of leaving a chocolate wrapped in shiny foil
on the pillow of a guest in a nice hotel--
"Hotel of earth, where we resided for some years together,"
I start to say--before I realize it is a terrible cliché, and stop,
and then go on, forgiving myself in a mere split second
because now that I'm dying, I just go
forward like water, flowing around obstacles
and second thoughts, not getting snagged, just continuing
with my long list of thank-yous
which seem naturally to expand
to include sunlight and wind,
and the aspen trees which seethe and shimmer in the yard
as if grateful for being soaked last night
by the beautiful irrigation system
invented by an individual
to whom I'm quietly grateful.
Outside it is autumn, the philosophical season,
when cold air sharpens the intellect;
the hills are red and copper in their shaggy mastery.
The clouds blow overhead, like governments and years.
It took me a long time to understand the phrase "distant regard,"
but I am grateful for it now,
and I am grateful for my heart,
that turned out to be good after all,
and grateful for my mind,
to which, in retrospect, I can see
I have never been sufficiently kind.
Here's another:
EPISTLE OF MOMENTARY GENEROSITY
I get a note from James, who used to be my friend,
in which he says he misses me,
so I hold the letter in my hand,
and for a moment just appreciate
this kindness that he squeezed out of his heart
right before that muscle clenched again
and tried to make him take it back,
or add a note that says, You dirty snake.
You have my Leonard Cohen albums.
And thus are human beings:
not always frightened or unkind. We
have moments when the mind unclouds
and old injuries are forgiven;
when the policeman hands the criminal a cigarette
and they stand in place and smoke, and stare
out the window at the rain;
when the lifejacket is tossed
from the back deck of a ship
too big to turn around--good luck!
That freely given impulse--there it goes.
And hour later you might regret your
open-handedness, or think it weak,
but it is gone; the blessing
can't be taken back,
and like a gull it sails
over the churning ocean,
tilting sideways for an instant
to slip between the judgment cliffs.
What a gift it is to tell the truth--and hear the truth.
October 29, 2018
Tony Hoagland was one of the first contemporary poets I read in college, and his poetry changed my writing profoundly. I have mostly moved on from Hoagland, in part because I sometimes find him problematic, but after his death last week, I got this from the library.
This volume was published earlier this year (2018) and from the poems it is obvious that he was anticipating losing his battle with cancer. I found the volume only so-so, but the final poem in the book was poignant and lovely and moving. My new favorite Hoagland poem. I've reproduced it here (via Sun Magazine):
Into The Mystery
Of course there is a time of afternoon, out there in the yard,
an hour that has never been described.
There is the way the warm air feels
among the flagstones and the tropical plants
with their dark, leathery green leaves.
There is a gap you never noticed,
dug out between the gravel and the rock, where something lives.
There is a bird that can only be heard by someone
who has come to be alone.
Now you are getting used to things that will not be happening again.
Never to be pushed down onto the bed again, laughing,
and have your clothes unbuttoned.
Never to stand up in the rear
of the pickup truck and scream, as you blast out of town.
This life that rushes over everything,
like water or like wind, and wears it down until it shines.
Now you sit on the brick wall in the cloudy afternoon and swing your legs,
happy because there never has been a word for this,
as you continue moving through these days and years
where more and more the message is
not to measure anything.
This volume was published earlier this year (2018) and from the poems it is obvious that he was anticipating losing his battle with cancer. I found the volume only so-so, but the final poem in the book was poignant and lovely and moving. My new favorite Hoagland poem. I've reproduced it here (via Sun Magazine):
Into The Mystery
Of course there is a time of afternoon, out there in the yard,
an hour that has never been described.
There is the way the warm air feels
among the flagstones and the tropical plants
with their dark, leathery green leaves.
There is a gap you never noticed,
dug out between the gravel and the rock, where something lives.
There is a bird that can only be heard by someone
who has come to be alone.
Now you are getting used to things that will not be happening again.
Never to be pushed down onto the bed again, laughing,
and have your clothes unbuttoned.
Never to stand up in the rear
of the pickup truck and scream, as you blast out of town.
This life that rushes over everything,
like water or like wind, and wears it down until it shines.
Now you sit on the brick wall in the cloudy afternoon and swing your legs,
happy because there never has been a word for this,
as you continue moving through these days and years
where more and more the message is
not to measure anything.
December 26, 2019
This collection showed off Hoagland’s trademark wit, yet these poems are a great deal more somber and melancholy, more resigned to accepting the truth: “Wisdom isn’t scarce; it / never was,” but we’re simply too stubborn to use it.
“ We are looking
for solutions – Getting
close to – Poised
to make the
breakthrough – Any day now.
Not true. We
already have chosen the strange
garments of confusion
that we will die in; we love
the thrill of enemies;
we burn
through beauty like it was
wrapping paper;
we breathe
the smoke of our distraction
like it was oxygen….”
(“No Thank You”)
Global warming, bigotry, mistreatment of immigrants, violence – all these things we watch destroying our world without taking positive action are sufficient reason for the change in Hoagland’s tone, but he also gives us some final gifts by openly facing his own death (October 2018, four months after this book’s publication). He shows us how much those of us with more breaths left have to appreciate and love. “I Have Good News” begins
“When you are sick for the last time in your life,
walking around, shaky, frail with your final illness,
feeling the space between yourself and other people
grow wider and wider
like the gap between a rowboat and its dock –
you will being to see the plants and flowers of your youth.”
He tell us, “The dark ending does not cancel out / the brightness of the middle.”
“ We are looking
for solutions – Getting
close to – Poised
to make the
breakthrough – Any day now.
Not true. We
already have chosen the strange
garments of confusion
that we will die in; we love
the thrill of enemies;
we burn
through beauty like it was
wrapping paper;
we breathe
the smoke of our distraction
like it was oxygen….”
(“No Thank You”)
Global warming, bigotry, mistreatment of immigrants, violence – all these things we watch destroying our world without taking positive action are sufficient reason for the change in Hoagland’s tone, but he also gives us some final gifts by openly facing his own death (October 2018, four months after this book’s publication). He shows us how much those of us with more breaths left have to appreciate and love. “I Have Good News” begins
“When you are sick for the last time in your life,
walking around, shaky, frail with your final illness,
feeling the space between yourself and other people
grow wider and wider
like the gap between a rowboat and its dock –
you will being to see the plants and flowers of your youth.”
He tell us, “The dark ending does not cancel out / the brightness of the middle.”
July 1, 2019
Hoagland's poetry is quirky, funny. He looks at beauty with his eyes cut to one side while he writes of truth with his tongue in the cheek on the other side. He addresses this big idea or that one, but his offhandedness tells the reader not to be afraid.
Death from cancer of the mouth
of the tyrant Joseph McCarthy;
the blue crow gliding over the arroyo, cawing;
the baby taking the lima bean from his mouth
and pushing it back between the lips of his mother
--these are examples of justice.
Death from cancer of the mouth
of the tyrant Joseph McCarthy;
the blue crow gliding over the arroyo, cawing;
the baby taking the lima bean from his mouth
and pushing it back between the lips of his mother
--these are examples of justice.
November 29, 2018
Since Tony died very recently,
I want to write a different type
of review... and so... simply say,
I absolutely hate to see this one go.
I "starred" almost every single poem
in this book. I think that says it all...
So few books "nail it" with ever page.
Even fewer authors have done it with
their careers. But... this guy... Tony...
did it.
As good as it gets, Tony...
Nathan
I want to write a different type
of review... and so... simply say,
I absolutely hate to see this one go.
I "starred" almost every single poem
in this book. I think that says it all...
So few books "nail it" with ever page.
Even fewer authors have done it with
their careers. But... this guy... Tony...
did it.
As good as it gets, Tony...
Nathan
January 30, 2018
lucid, funny, and often achingly sad. i'll be revisiting many of these poems again.
June 12, 2021
Definitely enjoyed more poems than I didn't. This is all I've read of Tony Hoagland, so I admit I don't have the attachment to him that someone else might, nor do I really have the context to see how his writing might have evolved as a result of his illness in this last book (which might have worked to make it more personally impactful for me). That said, the poems where he's being very frank and genuine on the topic of mortality, reflecting on the messiness of life—those are really the strongest. At the best points, he handles heavy topics in a way that's oddly charming—equally sentimental and ironic.
The ones that stood out to me personally were "Entangle", "Distant Regard", "An Ordinary Night in Athens, Ohio", "Examples of Justice", "Better Than Expected", "The Truth", "Rain-father", "Trying to Keep You Happy", "The Third Dimension", "The Classics", "Upward", "I Have Good News", and "Into the Mystery". So, quite a few!
Being completely honest, though, I got whiplash from a couple poems he snuck in that I found to be just a bit insufferable. It's not even that I disagree with his politics, but wow, "Cause of Death: Fox News" is really just what it says on the tin, huh. I can tolerate a bit of preachiness, and for the most part it didn't affect my experience, but when it did, it was really jarring and kind of ruined the better poem until I could cleanse my palette and come back to it. For example, "Hope", a poem I found extremely annoying, immediately followed up by "I Have Good News", which was the poem that led me to this book in the first place! Lemme include a quote from each to better convey what I mean:
That line from "Hope" just literally makes me want to chew glass. Chewing glass makes me necessarily less receptive to even the most moving poems, because I'm distracted by chewing glass. There's a couple other lines like that—that move from the "kind of preachy" category into the "irritating and legitimately questionable" category—but I think the better poems are definitely worth reading, and I don't wanna turn any readers of this review off to this book wholesale. And if you enjoyed the poems I didn't, it's all good.
...But just for the record, lol, the poems I rather disliked for one reason or another were "The Romance of the Tree", "Nobility" (if only for the first sentence, which I found patronizing), "Ten Questions for the New Age" (don't disagree with him I don't think, but it seemed he had a very specific bone to pick), "Ten Reasons Why We Cannot Seem to Make Progress", "Theatre Piece" (here I'm just unsure why he thinks he's the one to comment on this), "Couture" (just dumb), "Cause of Death: Fox News", "Real Estate", "Data Stream", "Confusion of Privilege" (why do Tony Hoagland's therapists like to stare out the window in the middle of their sessions so much in this book?), and "Hope".
I'm being rather critical here, but at the end of the day, I'd rather have a bumpy, interesting read than a smooth, boring one. And maybe I just like ranting. In Hoagland's words, "we have already chosen the strange garments of confusion that we will die in; we love the thrill of enemies; we burn through beauty like it was wrapping paper; we breathe the smoke of our distraction like it was oxygen." ("No Thank You")
***
The ones that stood out to me personally were "Entangle", "Distant Regard", "An Ordinary Night in Athens, Ohio", "Examples of Justice", "Better Than Expected", "The Truth", "Rain-father", "Trying to Keep You Happy", "The Third Dimension", "The Classics", "Upward", "I Have Good News", and "Into the Mystery". So, quite a few!
Being completely honest, though, I got whiplash from a couple poems he snuck in that I found to be just a bit insufferable. It's not even that I disagree with his politics, but wow, "Cause of Death: Fox News" is really just what it says on the tin, huh. I can tolerate a bit of preachiness, and for the most part it didn't affect my experience, but when it did, it was really jarring and kind of ruined the better poem until I could cleanse my palette and come back to it. For example, "Hope", a poem I found extremely annoying, immediately followed up by "I Have Good News", which was the poem that led me to this book in the first place! Lemme include a quote from each to better convey what I mean:
"Because gender was proven to be a cultural construction,
the mother gave the infant to the father to nurse,
with his small dry nipples and his hairy chest.
It was only fair, but it didn't work." ("Hope")
"... it doesn't matter if you die
whimpering into the railing of the hospital bed,
refusing to see visitors,
smelling your own body in the dawn.
The dark ending does not cancel out
the brightness of the middle.
Your day of greatest joy cannot be dimmed by any shame." ("I Have Good News")
That line from "Hope" just literally makes me want to chew glass. Chewing glass makes me necessarily less receptive to even the most moving poems, because I'm distracted by chewing glass. There's a couple other lines like that—that move from the "kind of preachy" category into the "irritating and legitimately questionable" category—but I think the better poems are definitely worth reading, and I don't wanna turn any readers of this review off to this book wholesale. And if you enjoyed the poems I didn't, it's all good.
...But just for the record, lol, the poems I rather disliked for one reason or another were "The Romance of the Tree", "Nobility" (if only for the first sentence, which I found patronizing), "Ten Questions for the New Age" (don't disagree with him I don't think, but it seemed he had a very specific bone to pick), "Ten Reasons Why We Cannot Seem to Make Progress", "Theatre Piece" (here I'm just unsure why he thinks he's the one to comment on this), "Couture" (just dumb), "Cause of Death: Fox News", "Real Estate", "Data Stream", "Confusion of Privilege" (why do Tony Hoagland's therapists like to stare out the window in the middle of their sessions so much in this book?), and "Hope".
I'm being rather critical here, but at the end of the day, I'd rather have a bumpy, interesting read than a smooth, boring one. And maybe I just like ranting. In Hoagland's words, "we have already chosen the strange garments of confusion that we will die in; we love the thrill of enemies; we burn through beauty like it was wrapping paper; we breathe the smoke of our distraction like it was oxygen." ("No Thank You")
***
The Truth
In summer there was something in the selfhood of the wasps
that wanted to get inside the screened-in porch.
It sent them buzzing against the wire mesh,
probing under the eaves,
crawling into the cracks between the boards.
Each day we'd find new bodies on the sill:
little failures, like struck matches:
shrunken in death, the yellow
color of cider or old varnish.
The blue self of the sky looked down
on the self of the wooden house
where the wasps were perishing.
The wind swept them to the ground.
The wasps seemed to be extensions
of one big thing
making the same effort again and again.
I can remember the feeling of being driven
by some longing I could not understand
to look for the passage through,
—trying again and again
to get inside. I must have left a lot
of dead former selves scattered around behind me
while I kept pushing my blunt head
at a space that prevented my entering
—and by that preventing delivered me
to where I live now, still outside;
still flying around
in the land of the unfinished.
July 26, 2021
This volume was Hoagland's last collection before his death at 63 from pancreatic cancer. Although not all the poems were, I thought, equally strong, there was something special that stood out in each one and many of them were consistently excellent.
I found the poems that touched on his own illness and approaching death of particular interest. They felt immediate. They had the same wealth of specificity of detail as his poems do in general which open out into an intense emotional landscape. His humor, a trademark of his poetry, takes a backseat here to the emotional experience and philosophical (never heavy handed) observations. They are powerful reports from the land of the dying.
A powerful, moving collection.
I found the poems that touched on his own illness and approaching death of particular interest. They felt immediate. They had the same wealth of specificity of detail as his poems do in general which open out into an intense emotional landscape. His humor, a trademark of his poetry, takes a backseat here to the emotional experience and philosophical (never heavy handed) observations. They are powerful reports from the land of the dying.
A powerful, moving collection.
October 21, 2019
An amazing collection of poems. Some of them are ironic and witty, but most of them, especially towards the end, are wrapped in a darkness clearly foreshadowing Tony Hoagland's early death. If you haven't sampled this unique voice, I strongly suggest you start with this book of poetry, the last to be published in his lifetime.
February 27, 2024
This was so beautiful, every single poem spoke to my heart. I wish I could look at the world the way he writes it. Enchanting.
January 27, 2024
Sjajna zbirka praćena odličnim tekstom Danila Lučića.
February 24, 2019
Man! I love Tony Hoagland.
I don’t know how I can even review one of his books. He’s had so much influence over me as an artist and soul, I cannot judge his work with aesthetic objectivity.
Yet I did give this four rather than five stars. That’s only because I sort of approached this in comparison and expectation with Hoagland’s other work. I’d venture to say there are about a dozen to 15 absolute copy-them-down-in-your-journal poems. That’s a tour de force by anyone. I just unfairly want every one of Hoagland’s poems to change something in me. To axe away some of the iceberg within to paraphrase Kafka.
So that means there are some poems here that are good, not great. And then about 5-6 that are actually not very good. They hurt me.
Anyway, if you’re looking to begin reading Hoagland’s poetry for the first time, I’d start with Donkey Gospel or What Narcissism Means To Me. Then it’s your choice. This is very good, Application For Release From The Dream
Is excellent. And if you have ANY desire to WRITE poetry, Real Sofisticashun is a must.
I don’t know how I can even review one of his books. He’s had so much influence over me as an artist and soul, I cannot judge his work with aesthetic objectivity.
Yet I did give this four rather than five stars. That’s only because I sort of approached this in comparison and expectation with Hoagland’s other work. I’d venture to say there are about a dozen to 15 absolute copy-them-down-in-your-journal poems. That’s a tour de force by anyone. I just unfairly want every one of Hoagland’s poems to change something in me. To axe away some of the iceberg within to paraphrase Kafka.
So that means there are some poems here that are good, not great. And then about 5-6 that are actually not very good. They hurt me.
Anyway, if you’re looking to begin reading Hoagland’s poetry for the first time, I’d start with Donkey Gospel or What Narcissism Means To Me. Then it’s your choice. This is very good, Application For Release From The Dream
Is excellent. And if you have ANY desire to WRITE poetry, Real Sofisticashun is a must.
Read
November 10, 2022Zašto ne bih mogao,
zašto ne bih mogao sada,
da šetam ulicom,
ispod nadvijenih krošanja,
podignem ruke i kažem
da kiša što se probija kroz lišće
nije neprijatnost, već radost?
zašto ne bih mogao sada,
da šetam ulicom,
ispod nadvijenih krošanja,
podignem ruke i kažem
da kiša što se probija kroz lišće
nije neprijatnost, već radost?
January 5, 2025
A great collection of poems by a poet at the end of his life. I really felt Hoagland's honesty and humor as well as his sobering authenticity regarding elements of American life. One thing this collection does well is keep the bitterness of seeing one's demise coming at a minimum and instead is relishing over the life and time he had and had left. Not overly gushy, but real in its message. I'm sorry that I'm a bit late to the Hoagland party, but will seek out his other collections in the future.
July 29, 2024
Hoagland is in my top 5 favorite poets, I turn to his books to remind me that there is an audience for what I am trying to make. My poetry professor in college knew him, and quoted Tony as saying "You know why I'm a better poet than you? Because you have a wife, and kids, and a job. I only have this."
Favorites in no particular order: Playboy, Happy and Free, No Thank You, Couture, Trying to Keep You Happy.
Favorites in no particular order: Playboy, Happy and Free, No Thank You, Couture, Trying to Keep You Happy.
August 3, 2019
I was so sad when he died and so happy to learn by holding it that there is one last book of his poetry, that he can tell us what it’s like to be dying as poignantly and humorously as he has told us what it’s like to be living.
May 29, 2023
Tony Hoagland's poetry is sharp, genuine and perfectly punctuated by humour, humility and the truth.
What a joy to read these poems; each of them does so well to encapsulate the essence of the human condition. The world needs more of this! I cannot wait to read more of him.
Thank you Mary for the recommendation!
What a joy to read these poems; each of them does so well to encapsulate the essence of the human condition. The world needs more of this! I cannot wait to read more of him.
Thank you Mary for the recommendation!
July 4, 2020
To be revisited time and again!
August 21, 2020
I've thoroughly enjoyed every collection of Hoagland's I've read.
Julie, if you see this, thanks for introducing us!
Julie, if you see this, thanks for introducing us!
March 31, 2024
A few not endearing political takes but Tony knows how to write a poem
January 15, 2019
I have been a devoted fan of Tony Hoagland for some years and was devastated to learn, belatedly, that he passed away last October from pancreatic cancer at the age of 64. Far too young. His recent books had gotten a bit pat compared to the earlier ones, which electrified me. This book, published during his last year and perhaps his final one, contains some material that he might have excluded with more thought; there's more unevenness of quality. But I do love the poems about mortality, when he mingles his usual wry comments about the colorful, jarring juxtapositions of the natural and human worlds with meditations on the decline of his own body. For those poems alone, and especially, this book is worth seeking out.
December 8, 2019
It was good, but some of the poems seemed to be lecturing me, and one of them struck me as transphobic. I almost knocked off another star for that, but I guess the good ones were good enough. Clearly, I’m feeling very ambivalent about this one.
EDIT: Having now read (and read about) Hoagland's problematic (read: racist) poem and his condescending response to Claudia Rankine's call-out, I'm taking it down to two stars. Yeah, some of the poems were good, but Hoagland is scum.
EDIT: Having now read (and read about) Hoagland's problematic (read: racist) poem and his condescending response to Claudia Rankine's call-out, I'm taking it down to two stars. Yeah, some of the poems were good, but Hoagland is scum.
November 10, 2019
This is probably the best book of Tony Hoagland poems since What Narcissism Means to Me, but it is by no means his best book. Its title is clunky, and many of the poems are, too: sullen, crotchety, aiming for incisive commentary but landing on dull grousing. My least favorite poem, "Theater Piece," exemplifies the cringey treatment of race that caused many readers to turn away from him in the last years of his life:
Regardless of the truth of the exploitation he's satirizing, this writing is just lazy. "Doing ... sonnets"? This vague "doing" shows a lack of care on the poem's part to really engage with the kind of art such artists of color perform. And even if the "cotton/rotten" rhyme is supposed to be hackneyed, the poem ought to try harder than the material it aims to satirize.
This kind of socially jaded poem, though too prevalent in the book, is redeemed by some very honest, refreshingly personal poems treating the poet's illness. "In the Waiting Room with Leonard Cohen" is not interesting in its treatment of the singer, but it allows the poet to express genuine testimony from a place of grief and fear:
I like the clunky language here, how it imitates the difficulty of letting go. There's something vulnerable about the "somethings." My favorite poem is "Taking My Medicine," in which the poet describes injecting himself with a hypodermic on his porch as a moment of defiance:
I love how that last line reads as both a prostration and a middle-finger to nature. This feels fresh, and it gives me hope that the last days of the poet's life were well spent. I am going to miss Tony Hoagland terribly. His writing made a profound impact on my own and ignited a love for poetry in me that I will always be grateful for. While his later work lacked the force of his first three books, I'm glad his last book has some of the warmth and good humor I loved most about his poetry.
artists of color
line up outside the theatre door for the audition,
volunteering to be exploited for a reasonable sum,
doing hip-hop sonnets that rhyme cotton with rotten.
Regardless of the truth of the exploitation he's satirizing, this writing is just lazy. "Doing ... sonnets"? This vague "doing" shows a lack of care on the poem's part to really engage with the kind of art such artists of color perform. And even if the "cotton/rotten" rhyme is supposed to be hackneyed, the poem ought to try harder than the material it aims to satirize.
This kind of socially jaded poem, though too prevalent in the book, is redeemed by some very honest, refreshingly personal poems treating the poet's illness. "In the Waiting Room with Leonard Cohen" is not interesting in its treatment of the singer, but it allows the poet to express genuine testimony from a place of grief and fear:
Still, crying is violent and weird and hard.
It is like pulling something free from something else
that doesn't want to give it up,
and keeps on pulling it back with a wheezing, ripping sound.
I like the clunky language here, how it imitates the difficulty of letting go. There's something vulnerable about the "somethings." My favorite poem is "Taking My Medicine," in which the poet describes injecting himself with a hypodermic on his porch as a moment of defiance:
So maybe I will practice the procrastination of the elm,
that holds its yellow-spotted leaves week after week,
and I raise my chin and let the January sunlight
take a good taste of my face.
I love how that last line reads as both a prostration and a middle-finger to nature. This feels fresh, and it gives me hope that the last days of the poet's life were well spent. I am going to miss Tony Hoagland terribly. His writing made a profound impact on my own and ignited a love for poetry in me that I will always be grateful for. While his later work lacked the force of his first three books, I'm glad his last book has some of the warmth and good humor I loved most about his poetry.
November 28, 2018
The following poem was my favorite in Tony Hoagland’s last collection.
INTO THE MYSTERY
Of course there is a time of afternoon, out there in the yard,
an hour that has never been described.
There is the way the warm air feels
among the flagstones and the tropical plants
with their dark, leathery green leaves.
There is a gap you never noticed,
dug out between the gravel and the rock, where something lives.
There is a bird that can only be heard by someone
who has come to be alone.
Now you are getting used to things that will not be happening again.
Never to be pushed down onto the bed again, laughing,
and have your clothes unbuttoned.
Never to stand up in the rear
of the pickup truck and scream, as you blast out of town.
This life that rushes over everything,
like water or like wind, and wears it down until it shines.
Now you sit on the brick wall in the cloudy afternoon and swing
your legs,
happy because there never has been a word for this
as you continue moving through these days and years
where more and more the message is
not to measure anything.
Tony Hoagland
INTO THE MYSTERY
Of course there is a time of afternoon, out there in the yard,
an hour that has never been described.
There is the way the warm air feels
among the flagstones and the tropical plants
with their dark, leathery green leaves.
There is a gap you never noticed,
dug out between the gravel and the rock, where something lives.
There is a bird that can only be heard by someone
who has come to be alone.
Now you are getting used to things that will not be happening again.
Never to be pushed down onto the bed again, laughing,
and have your clothes unbuttoned.
Never to stand up in the rear
of the pickup truck and scream, as you blast out of town.
This life that rushes over everything,
like water or like wind, and wears it down until it shines.
Now you sit on the brick wall in the cloudy afternoon and swing
your legs,
happy because there never has been a word for this
as you continue moving through these days and years
where more and more the message is
not to measure anything.
Tony Hoagland
June 26, 2018
What a wonderful collection this is, how painful to read, how full of heart and delicious irony. As always, Hoagland’s poems are about ideas most people would not express, brutally challenging our beliefs on both sides of the American cultural divide. Take "Ten Reasons Why We Cannot Seem to Make Progress,” which states the country will not move forward until, “every candidate for congress is required/to work for a year in a hospital/rubbing lotion on the stumps of amputees,/which is so frightening to the men on a sexual level/that only women will run for congress.” This poem is placed next to one spoofing New Agers called “Ten Questions for the New Age.” Hoagland is clearly very ill; this volume traces his acute awareness of the beauty of the world as he leaves it, stating — with masterful alliteration— in his final line of the text: "...more and more the message is/not to measure anything.” I hated to put this one down and turn to my next book, but I have read it twice. Time to move on, but I'm keeping it by the bed. Lovers of words, if you read no other poet, please read Tony Hoagland!! Start with Application for Release from a Dream and keep going.
December 14, 2021
Remarkable poetry about the human condition, social conditions, and the inner person as the poet faces his own death. I give it four instead of five stars only because I prefer a different type of poetry, but that doesn't take away from the power and voice of this work. Definitely recommended. There's humor here amidst some fairly dark takes on what's going on the world right now. One poem talks about children being obsessed by violence, not just a few children but all the children of Athens, Ohio. While fortunately this is not true (yet), with the recent rise of very young mass murderers via automatic weapon, it seems believable enough and extremely scary. There's a playful, kind one about people pursuing New Age philosophies/practices. There's a great one called "I Have Good News" about how, as the poet is coming to the end of his life, he encounters the flowers of his childhood once again, and they are just as enchanting and soul-refreshing as they were then; it's a lovely affirmation of life.
May 25, 2019
Tony Hoagland's last collection, alas, the final poem of which, "I Have Good News," ends with these lines, which he wrote knowing that his death was near:
The dark ending does no cancel out
the brightness of the middle.
Your day of greatest joy cannot be dimmed by any shame.
Poems looking back on his parents are especially poignant. "Frog Song," about his father:
I would have loved you more, if only I had known
you were a frog--amphibious, mottled, and small-brained;
not intimate by nature; preferring
to stay half-immersed below the water line;
so much a part of nature's plan you are oblivious to it.
And his mother, who was not treated well be his father, in "Playboy":
Maybe she said to herself out loud,
"Housework Times Fornication
Divided by Taken for Granted
Equals Decade of Burnt Meatloaf."
I wish she had, but I doubt it.
I wish I could go back and defend her from her life,
whose door at that moment was slowly drifting shut.
The dark ending does no cancel out
the brightness of the middle.
Your day of greatest joy cannot be dimmed by any shame.
Poems looking back on his parents are especially poignant. "Frog Song," about his father:
I would have loved you more, if only I had known
you were a frog--amphibious, mottled, and small-brained;
not intimate by nature; preferring
to stay half-immersed below the water line;
so much a part of nature's plan you are oblivious to it.
And his mother, who was not treated well be his father, in "Playboy":
Maybe she said to herself out loud,
"Housework Times Fornication
Divided by Taken for Granted
Equals Decade of Burnt Meatloaf."
I wish she had, but I doubt it.
I wish I could go back and defend her from her life,
whose door at that moment was slowly drifting shut.
February 22, 2023
Published just four months before his death, this volume demonstrates Tony Hoagland's satire, his humor, and even his hope:
"My heroes are the ones who don’t say much.
They don’t hug people they just met.
They don’t play louder when confused.
They use plain language even when they listen."
"Wisdom doesn’t come to every Californian.
Chances are I too will die with difficulty in the dark."
Or from “Which Would You Prefer, A Story or an Explanation?”
“I can’t tell the difference between inner peace and mild depression, / writes her friend from Philadelphia, in small blue script / on the back of a postcard of Chagall.”
and my favorite, “Hope:”
“I didn’t belong in the Twenty-First Century. / I didn’t belong anywhere anymore. / I sat in my old-fashioned kitchen / staring at the green Formica counter. / That’s when the butterfly floated through the window, / and landed on the artificial flower.”
"My heroes are the ones who don’t say much.
They don’t hug people they just met.
They don’t play louder when confused.
They use plain language even when they listen."
"Wisdom doesn’t come to every Californian.
Chances are I too will die with difficulty in the dark."
Or from “Which Would You Prefer, A Story or an Explanation?”
“I can’t tell the difference between inner peace and mild depression, / writes her friend from Philadelphia, in small blue script / on the back of a postcard of Chagall.”
and my favorite, “Hope:”
“I didn’t belong in the Twenty-First Century. / I didn’t belong anywhere anymore. / I sat in my old-fashioned kitchen / staring at the green Formica counter. / That’s when the butterfly floated through the window, / and landed on the artificial flower.”
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