Classic and Contemporary Poetry: Explained

Tony Hoagland’s "Smoke" is a contemplative poem that captures a moment of late-night solitude, where the speaker, in a quiet conversation with God, reflects on the paradoxes of existence—work and rest, accumulation and simplicity, suffering and forgetfulness. The act of smoking becomes a meditative ritual, a space where time slows, and the complexities of life momentarily dissolve into something inexplicably beautiful. Through its intimate, almost prayer-like tone, the poem examines the relationship between exhaustion and transcendence, between human striving and the fleeting moments of peace that emerge in stillness.

The poem begins with an invocation: "God, it is good to wake in the middle of the night / and smoke a cigarette with You." This direct address establishes an immediate intimacy between the speaker and the divine. The phrase "wake in the middle of the night" suggests an interruption of sleep, a break from the unconscious state that most people are in during this hour. This sleeplessness is not a burden but a privilege—an opportunity to engage with something deeper, to share a quiet moment with God. The casual nature of "smoke a cigarette with You" makes the relationship between the speaker and the divine feel personal, as if God is not a distant force but a companion in this act of contemplation.

The next lines expand outward, framing the city as a living, breathing entity: "while outside, the buildings sleep in geometric clumps, / the factories rest—replenishing themselves, / not so unlike the rosebushes or eucalyptus groves, / gathering power for one more thrust tomorrow." The comparison of factories to "rosebushes or eucalyptus groves" blurs the line between the artificial and the natural, suggesting that even the industrial world follows organic rhythms of exertion and recovery. The phrase "gathering power for one more thrust tomorrow" evokes both inevitability and exhaustion—each day is a renewed effort, whether for machines or for people.

The poem then shifts to a more luminous, almost sacred imagery: "For now, the streetlights blossom above the boulevard, / a lone truck on the darkened bridge / transports its spark across the gap, / the way your fingertip ignited Michaelangelo to think, long ago, / that You were there." The streetlights are described as "blossoming," reinforcing the earlier connection between the built environment and organic life. The lone truck’s spark—a tiny, transient flash of movement—is likened to the divine touch that inspired Michelangelo’s famous depiction of God and Adam in The Creation of Adam. This analogy suggests that even the smallest, most ordinary moments contain echoes of something vast and eternal.

The speaker then reflects on the nature of human effort: "One does so much building up, / so much feverish acquiring, / but really, it is all aimed at a condition of exhausted simplicity, isn?t it?" This observation captures the paradox of human ambition—we spend our lives accumulating, striving, constructing, only to eventually seek a state of stillness and rest. The phrase "exhausted simplicity" is key; it suggests that peace is not the absence of effort but the resolution of it, a return to something essential after all the feverish activity.

The next passage moves into an appreciation of the night itself: "We don’t love things. / So this hour of the night is precious, / when the curtains swell like lungs / and the world is full of bodies falling / from the precipice of sleep." The declaration "We don’t love things." stands alone, as if to contradict the earlier mention of "feverish acquiring." The implication is that what we truly value is not material accumulation but moments like this—moments of stillness, of breath, of being. The imagery of "curtains swell[ing] like lungs" reinforces the idea of the world itself breathing, a living entity inhaling and exhaling in tandem with its inhabitants.

The description of people "falling from the precipice of sleep" is both gentle and dramatic, evoking the idea that sleep is not simply rest but a kind of surrender, a descent into a state where awareness is lost. This moment is significant because, for "seven hours, maybe eight, they don’t remember how to suffer / or how to run from it." Sleep, then, is a temporary escape from the burdens of consciousness, a reprieve from both pain and the avoidance of pain. In this state, "They are like the stars, or potted plants, or salty oceanic waves." The comparison suggests that, in sleep, humans return to something elemental, something stripped of complexity and struggle.

The poem then shifts back to the intimate, almost humorous dialogue with God: "And do You like this brand of cigarette? / And are You comfortable?" These questions reinforce the casual, almost companionable relationship the speaker imagines with the divine. The act of smoking, which might be considered indulgent or harmful, is reframed as a shared moment of contemplation. The speaker is not asking for divine wisdom or intervention but simply for presence, for companionship in this quiet hour.

The final lines return to the image of smoke itself: "It is so quiet now, the streetlights shine. / And I have noticed how the strands of smoke, / even in no hint of wind, still decorate the air / in cursive braided loops and swirls." The description of smoke as "cursive braided loops and swirls" likens it to handwriting, as if the air itself is being inscribed with something fleeting yet beautiful. The speaker dismisses the idea that this could be a divine "signature," but nonetheless acknowledges its aesthetic and mysterious qualities: "No, it is not a signature. / But it is beautiful, and it is inexplicable, and it is good." The final declaration—"and it is good."—echoes the biblical language of Genesis, where God repeatedly declares creation to be good. This suggests that meaning does not have to be explicitly written or revealed; beauty, mystery, and presence are enough.

"Smoke" is a meditation on the tension between human striving and the simplicity we ultimately seek. Hoagland presents a moment of nighttime solitude as a sacred experience, where exhaustion gives way to contemplation and even the act of smoking becomes a form of communion with the divine. The poem does not attempt to resolve the paradoxes it presents—rather, it embraces them, finding beauty in the fleeting, the inexplicable, and the quiet presence of something beyond words. Through its reflective, almost prayer-like tone, "Smoke" suggests that transcendence is not necessarily found in revelation, but in the ability to sit still, observe, and accept the world as it is, in all its contradictions.

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