The Smell of a Good Cigar
Jan 23 2017


My father gave up cigars
before I was old enough to be schooled 
in the manly art of lighting up.
The meticulous ritual of cigars,
comforting 
in its sameness.

I imagine inhaling 
the humidor’s rich wetness
of grass and loam
and saddle leather.
Eyeing the greenish-brown wrapper
for colour, sheen, vein.
Sniffing the tobacco along its length,
before fingering 
for freshness, packing, heft.
And then, with its purpose-made implement, clipping the cap
with a guillotine’s exactitude.

Finally, circling its foot above the flame
before the long first draw.
Then the orange glow, the wreath of smoke
the bluish-grey cloud,
like a comforting shroud
hovering over the room.
The lengthening ash, like combustion’s grey ghost
hanging stiffly on. 

I loved the smell of a good cigar.
But not the stale smoke afterward,
clinging to furniture
soiling his clothes 
infusing his car.
The ashtray 
with its soot, cinder
sodden butt.
 And when, in the company of others
he snuck just one,
my mother’s stink-eye
spoiling the fun.

A fat Cuban, rolled by hand
in the sultry heat
of  some sweet-smelling factory.
My uncle would come from the States, and sneak them back;
2 childhood rivals,
stiff drinks
in heavy tumblers
clinking with ice.
2 middle-aged brothers
in the den’s deepening murk,
fondling Havanas
cracking wise.

I watched, wishing I could grow up faster
and learn to smoke cigars,
the rite of passage
that makes a boy a man.

I still recall
dark leather
and over-stuffed chairs
and rich wood paneling.
The heady scent
of fine tobacco
sweetening the stagnant air.



I suspected I’d written this poem before. So when I finished, I entered “cigar” into the search engine and this came up (see below).  I think I may have done it better 6 1/2 years ago, which is somewhat depressing:  not just that I’m pointlessly repeating myself, but that  I’m doing it less well instead of improving. I would have to say of both, though, that there are far too many words, and that neither reads as naturally and conversationally as I would like:  my usual criticisms of pretty much everything I write! (On re-reading, A Fresh Fat Cuban (great title!) seems to stop instead of coming to a proper ending. May another line or two would help.)




A Fresh Fat Cuban
Nov 2 2010


There was the smell of cigars.
In the den, where he read the evening paper.
In the car
always a late model Oldsmobile.
Smudging the windows 
with a dull blue haze,
crumpled in ashtrays, the blunt remains 
of stogies
dark with spit.
Rolling around his lips
not paying much attention,
the way a couple kiss
after 40 years of marriage.

Stale cigar smoke
is like a beer parlour at closing time,
better in low light
urgently opening windows.
But when someone puffs
on a fresh fat Cuban
you can’t get enough,
inhaling the 2nd hand smoke
with greedy pleasure,
nose extended, nostrils flared.
Impatient to be grown up,
when you will be ushered in
to the secret society of men,
who can knot a bow-tie, eyes closed, 
tell off-colour jokes, 
light up a stogie
old-school.

My glamorous uncle
would come all the way up 
from New York City,
stashing a box full of hand-rolled Cubans
in his matching bags.
The thrill of contraband
immensely improving
the long slow draw
of well-cured tobacco.

My dad quit
a few years after I left home.
I never did  learn how to smoke.
But I still love the smell
of a good cigar.
The thick smoke, uncoiling;
the rich brown leaves
with a little green
in the wrapper.

I can only hope
that one day
I will have something to celebrate
worthy of a fine cigar.
Passing around
a well-stocked humidor 
to comrades, and co-conspirators,
swapping backslaps
and manly laughter.



The closest I ever got were those cheap wine-dipped and plastic-tipped Cigarillos:  in  my defence, a mercifully short-lived form of adolescent rebellion. 

The rest is largely true. With embellishment (poetic license?), of course. My father never really smoked that often; only on special occasions. And he never drove an Oldsmobile; but the brand has that nice archaic sound, and evokes a past era delightfully – well before the age of political correctness. Back when a prosperous executive bought a new car every two years. And fits nicely this whole archaic notion of “manliness” (Which, needless to say – except somehow I feel I need to say it – I’m using entirely ironically!) I don’t think anyone says “late model” anymore, either. And while newspapers still struggle gamely on, the evening editions have altogether disappeared. The New York uncle always did seem glamorous; and I’m sure those illegal Cubans tasted twice as good because of it. And the smell of stale cigar smoke is really quite revolting, while the smell of a freshly smoked cigar is intoxicating:  better, I think, 2nd hand than it is for the actual smoker. 

My mother eventually had her way, and my dad quit. My brother, too:  also to the eternal relief of his own long-suffering wife! 

I’ve been watching a TV series called Boardwalk Empire, set in Atlantic City at the time of prohibition. The men here drink too much, step out on their wives, wear gorgeous suits and great hats, and smoke big fat cigars with impeccable style. I don’t want to emulate them. But these archetypes do strike me as the essence of manliness, and the well-savoured cigar is an indispensable part.

 …I just realized that when the paternal side of my family first came over from Europe in the 1800’s (from Amsterdam, actually) they were in the cigar business! In fact, the precursor to a fairly big chain called United Cigar (which may not still be around; but was when I was a kid.)

So perhaps there’s a cigar aficionado’s gene lurking somewhere inside me, and I was destined – sooner or later – to write a cigar poem!