Classic and Contemporary Poetry: Explained

Tony Hoagland’s "Perpetual Motion" is a restless meditation on escape, dislocation, and the seductive illusion of freedom that comes with constant movement. Through a blend of humor, self-awareness, and existential melancholy, the poem explores the impulse to flee—whether from responsibility, identity, or personal entanglements—only to find that motion itself becomes a kind of confinement. The speaker, caught between past and future, recognizes the paradox at the heart of his desire: the longing to disappear is just as powerful as the need to be seen.

The poem opens with a casual yet vivid scene: "In a little while I?ll be drifting up an on-ramp, sipping coffee from a styrofoam container, checking my gas gauge with one eye and twisting the dial of the radio with the fingers of my third hand." The list of simultaneous actions creates a sense of overstimulation, of a driver whose body is fragmented across multiple tasks, already disconnected from any singular experience. The phrase "drifting up an on-ramp" suggests both physical movement and a lack of control, as though the speaker is not actively driving but being pulled forward by the force of habit or compulsion.

This compulsion is soon diagnosed: "It seems I have the travelling disease again, an outbreak of that virus celebrated by the cracked lips of a thousand blues musicians." The metaphor of travel as disease introduces a theme of compulsive escape, framing the road not as a path to somewhere new but as a symptom of unrest. The “cracked lips” of blues musicians evoke a lineage of wanderers who have sung of departure and loss—figures who, like the speaker, equate movement with survival. The references to “a rooster and a traintrack, a sunrise and a jug of cherry cherry wine” summon the archetypal images of blues music: time’s relentless passage (the train), fleeting pleasure (wine), and the solitude of those who must always be on the move.

The poem then shifts into surreal territory: "It?s the kind of perceptual confusion that makes your loved ones into strangers, that makes a highway look like a woman with air conditioned arms." This line suggests that prolonged movement distorts the speaker’s perception, severing his emotional ties. Loved ones become unfamiliar, as if distance erases intimacy, while the highway itself transforms into a seductive presence, "with a bottomless cup of coffee for a mouth and jewelry shaped like pay phone booths dripping from her ears." The anthropomorphized highway is both nurturing (offering coffee) and transactional (adorned with pay phones, symbols of fleeting connection). The imagery underscores the way constant motion replaces deep relationships with temporary, impersonal encounters.

The speaker’s detachment is further reinforced by the role of music. "In a little while the radio will almost have me convinced that I am doing something romantic, something to do with ?freedom? and ?becoming? instead of fright and flight." Here, the poem exposes the mythology of the open road—the idea that travel represents self-discovery, personal reinvention, or adventure. The radio, as an external influence, attempts to shape the speaker’s perception, selling him the romanticized narrative of the wandering soul. Yet the speaker is aware of the deception; movement is not about becoming but about escaping, not about discovery but about "fright and flight." The contrast between these terms—romantic versus desperate—reveals the speaker’s ambivalence. While he longs to believe in the former, he knows he is driven by the latter.

The existential depth of the poem reaches its peak with the stunning line: "into an anonymity so deep it has no bottom, only signs to tell you what direction you are falling in: CHEYENNE, SEATTLE, WICHITA, DETROIT—Do you hear me, do you feel me moving through?" The idea of falling rather than traveling reframes motion as descent, as an uncontrolled plunge into nothingness. The only indicators of location are road signs, yet these do not offer stability—only a vague sense of direction within an otherwise bottomless void. The question—“Do you hear me, do you feel me moving through?”—is addressed to no one and everyone, a plea for recognition even as the speaker dissolves into transience.

The poem closes with an admission of its central paradox: "With my foot upon the gas, between the future and the past, I am here— / here where the desire to vanish is stronger than the desire to appear." The phrase “between the future and the past” reinforces the speaker’s liminal existence, as he neither fully inhabits where he has been nor where he is going. The use of "here"—isolated and emphasized—ironically underscores the lack of presence. To be here is to be nowhere, as the real destination is erasure itself. The final line encapsulates the poem’s existential tension: the drive to escape is more powerful than the desire to be seen, yet the very act of articulating this longing suggests an unspoken yearning for recognition.

"Perpetual Motion" captures the intoxication and hollowness of relentless movement, examining the myth of the open road while acknowledging the ache that fuels it. Hoagland’s speaker, aware of his own restlessness, recognizes the paradox of flight: the faster one moves, the more one risks losing oneself. The poem stands as both a celebration of transience and a lament for what is left behind, revealing the road not as a path to freedom but as a symptom of a deeper, unresolvable yearning.

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