Classic and Contemporary Poetry: Explained

Tony Hoagland’s "Proud" is a scathing meditation on hubris, miscommunication, and the consequences of unchecked ego—whether personal or national. By weaving together historical, mythological, and personal narratives, Hoagland explores the destructive nature of pride, particularly the ways in which arrogance isolates, distorts truth, and ultimately leads to ruin. Through the story of his brother’s downfall and the grand metaphor of America’s overreaching ambition, the poem argues that the inability to admit vulnerability—whether in love or geopolitics—is a fatal flaw.

The poem opens with an allusion to the Tower of Babel: “Like those crazy Babylonians, who raised a tower higher than their own I.Q.” The phrase "crazy Babylonians" sets an ironic, almost mocking tone, as if their ambition was doomed from the start. The idea that they built a tower “so gigantic, it could only have been built by God” points to the paradox at the heart of hubris—attempting to create something beyond human capacity while foolishly believing oneself to be the architect. The key mistake, Hoagland suggests, is that “they forgot” this fact, leading to their inevitable collapse, as their unity “fell, in argument, apart, like so many unmortared parts of speech.” This phrase cleverly plays on both the physical disintegration of the tower and the biblical punishment—confusing their language so they could no longer communicate. The connection between arrogance and the breakdown of language sets the stage for the rest of the poem.

The next lines apply this lesson to modern life: “Babylon, remember? / They fell, and we grew up to learn two languages— / one for money, and one for love; / one for saying what we mean, and one for hiding it.” The suggestion here is that, rather than learning from Babel’s fall, contemporary society has only refined the art of division, mastering the ability to separate sincerity from deception. The idea that we "grew up" into this state implies that this duality is not just a cultural failure but an inherent part of human development. The language of capitalism and transactional relationships overtakes honesty and intimacy, leading to an existence where meaning is always obscured.

The speaker then shifts to a deeply personal example, his brother: “I?m thinking of my brother, who lost his voice, and then his wife / because he was too proud to say, ‘Please, Don’t Go.’” This introduces the poem’s central emotional core—pride as a force that isolates and destroys relationships. The simplicity of “Please, Don’t Go” makes it all the more tragic; a single, vulnerable admission could have changed everything. But instead, the brother’s silence leads to his unraveling. He becomes “that architect”—a builder of illusions and defenses—who now “sleeps on his office couch, / twitching like a racedog in a business suit.” The metaphor of the “racedog” conveys both exhaustion and obsession, a creature conditioned to chase victory but incapable of rest. The phrase “dreams he is so far ahead of all the competition, / he’ll be impossible to catch” is deeply ironic—he believes he is winning even as his life falls apart.

Hoagland expands the metaphor further, comparing his brother’s arrogance to that of America itself: “I?m speaking of my brother, but I might as well be talking of my enormously rich and arrogant other relative, the United States.” This blunt comparison is the poem’s most overt political statement. Just as his brother’s pride cost him his happiness, the speaker suggests that America’s unchecked ambition will lead to its own downfall. The country is “so goliath, it casts a shadow over half the world; / so ambidextrous, it can lie and listen to itself at once.” The reference to Goliath, the biblical giant who was slain by a smaller opponent, foreshadows a possible fate—greatness undone by overconfidence. The phrase “lie and listen to itself at once” is a damning critique of American hypocrisy, a nation that deceives even as it believes its own rhetoric.

The poem shifts again, broadening into a philosophical reflection: “And isn’t that the story of the mind? / Which started as a little church, with open doors, / but wound up as a fortress, with foot-thick walls and a bristling defense.” This passage suggests that the process of growing up—both individually and as a society—often involves moving from openness to defensiveness, from sincerity to guardedness. The mind, originally a space of communion and possibility (“a little church”), becomes a fortified stronghold, closed off by fear and pride. Inside this fortress, we become lost, “muttering about our enemies and making up the truth.” The inability to acknowledge weakness or admit error transforms both individuals and nations into isolated, self-deceiving entities.

The next section of the poem presents a chilling diagnosis of human nature: “Truth is, the self is a disease, a wound / which grows infected with the fear / that it will never have enough.” The idea of the self as a “disease” suggests that ego itself is inherently destructive. The fear of insufficiency—whether in personal relationships or national power—leads to an insatiable hunger for more. This segues into one of the poem’s most striking metaphors: “And egomania is standing on a mountaintop / and sucking down great lungfuls of a better quality of air / than what the common people get.” This image of a person believing their very breath is superior encapsulates the delusion of unchecked pride. The phrase “it feels like freedom and it tastes like truth” underscores the seductive nature of arrogance—how it can masquerade as something noble while actually being a form of self-imposed blindness.

The final stanza delivers the poem’s devastating conclusion: “And maybe we will have to go on climbing / to some hopeless height, to some fantastic speed, / like Icarus the biggest day of his career.” The reference to Icarus—who flew too close to the sun and fell to his death—suggests that the cycle of hubris and downfall is inevitable. The phrase “the biggest day of his career” is wryly humorous but also tragic; at the peak of success, ruin is already assured. The notion that there are “pinnacles of ignorance, altitudes of stupid, / from which recovery is impossible” suggests that there may be a point beyond redemption—both for individuals and for nations.

The final lines return to the personal: “I think of my brother, who might have saved himself / with just a single word, however late and lame. / I think of my country, which goes on talking.” The brother’s fate and America’s trajectory are linked—both could have been altered by humility, by a willingness to admit fault. But while the brother remained silent and lost everything, the country “goes on talking”—endlessly justifying, rationalizing, and deceiving itself. The implication is that America, unlike the brother, may not even recognize the need for that single word that could save it.

"Proud" is a scathing critique of ego, exploring how arrogance—whether in individuals or nations—leads to isolation, destruction, and a failure to recognize what truly matters. Hoagland masterfully weaves together personal, historical, and political narratives, showing that the inability to admit vulnerability is a universal flaw, repeated throughout history. In the end, the poem warns that unless pride is tempered with humility, the cycle of ruin will continue—whether in a single broken man or an entire empire blindly racing toward its own downfall.

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