Classic and Contemporary Poetry: Explained

Tony Hoagland’s "Change in Plans" is a meditation on the fluid nature of understanding, the impermanence of certainty, and the way both individuals and the world itself are in a state of continual revision. The poem explores how perception shifts over time, how each new realization eventually becomes obsolete, and how the process of change itself is both exhausting and necessary. Through a combination of painterly imagery, philosophical reflection, and a final, striking metaphor, Hoagland suggests that adaptation is not just about survival but about embracing the unpredictability of transformation.

The poem begins with a statement of weariness: "It?s tiring, this endless revision / of our idea of a world / which is being continually revised—." The repetition of "revision" emphasizes the cyclical nature of change—our understanding of the world is never fixed because the world itself is always shifting. The phrase "endless revision" suggests a kind of exhaustion, as if keeping up with change requires constant effort. This introduces the central tension of the poem: the desire for stability versus the inevitability of flux.

The next lines provide a visual analogy: "as the painter good-naturedly / lengthens the ash on his model?s cigarette— / or, if nature is his model, subtracts a leaf / from the birch undressing in the yard." Here, Hoagland likens the process of change to an artist modifying his work in real time. The "good-naturedly" lengthened ash suggests a casual, even whimsical alteration, as if revisions are made not with great urgency but as part of an ongoing process of adjustment. The second image shifts from the human to the natural world: the birch tree "undressing" by shedding its leaves. This framing of seasonal change as an act of deliberate stripping reinforces the idea that nature itself is engaged in constant revision. It also subtly introduces the theme of loss—change often involves subtraction, letting go of something once held.

The poem then moves into a broader existential reflection: "It?s hard to remember what we?re practicing for / with this long succession of goodbyes / as each new understanding goes out of date, / like a window turning into a mistake." The phrase "what we?re practicing for" suggests that life is a kind of rehearsal, though for what remains unclear. The "long succession of goodbyes" speaks to the inevitability of loss, whether of people, beliefs, or past versions of oneself. Each "new understanding" is impermanent, destined to be replaced just as surely as an old idea fades into irrelevance. The simile "like a window turning into a mistake" is particularly evocative—what was once a clear perspective, an opening to the world, eventually becomes an error, a distortion rather than a revelation. This captures the disorienting nature of change, where even once-cherished viewpoints can seem misguided in hindsight.

Despite this, the poem does not advocate despair but rather a shift in approach: "What we?ve learned is mostly not to be so smart— / to believe, as the hands believe, in only what they hold." This suggests a movement away from abstract knowledge and toward the tangible, the immediate. The phrase "not to be so smart" carries a note of humility; it implies that intelligence, especially when overly rigid or theoretical, may be inadequate for navigating a world in flux. Instead, there is value in the simplicity of physical experience—the hands believe in what they touch, in what is directly present. This echoes a theme found in much of Hoagland’s work: a skepticism toward intellectual certainty in favor of a more embodied, instinctual engagement with life.

Rather than offering direct explanations, the poem then turns to storytelling: "And we don?t rush our explanations. / Instead, we tell a story:" This shift underscores the idea that meaning is not something to be defined quickly but something to be explored over time, through narrative rather than analysis. Stories allow for ambiguity, for evolution, for a kind of truth that is flexible rather than absolute.

The final image is striking in both its poetic logic and its metaphorical weight: "Remember how the reptiles, after generations / of desire to taste the yellow flowers, / thrust out wings one day and lifted from the ground?" This is an imagined, almost mythic retelling of evolution. The idea that reptiles grew wings out of "desire to taste the yellow flowers" is not scientifically accurate, but it is emotionally and metaphorically powerful. It suggests that transformation is driven not by mere survival but by longing, by an attraction to beauty, by an urge to reach for something beyond one’s current state.

The closing lines deepen this metaphor: "Being birds by that time, their appetites had changed. / But they kept on flying." The shift from reptile to bird is complete, yet the very thing that drove their transformation—the hunger for yellow flowers—is no longer relevant to them. This is the essence of change: by the time we reach what we once longed for, we may no longer desire it. Yet, the birds do not stop flying. Their transformation has given them new possibilities, new instincts, a new way of being in the world.

Hoagland leaves the reader with this paradox: change is exhausting, revision is constant, and the goals we strive for may not remain the same by the time we reach them. But the act of striving, the adaptation itself, is what endures. "Change in Plans" is ultimately a reflection on how we navigate the shifting landscapes of understanding and experience. The poem acknowledges the weariness that comes with constant change but also affirms that transformation—whether in knowledge, identity, or physical form—is part of the fundamental motion of life. We may not always know what we are practicing for, but like the birds, we keep flying.

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