At first, to be honest, I thought that this poem is about Thomas for four reasons: I think of this image because one snowy afternoon, after a long summer of passersby carrying copies of Madness, Rack, and Honey: Or dissolved on my tongue and snaked down my throat?
Maybe that could be because this happened to her, she was maybe looking outside and dreaming of freedom. I just looked at the homepage, and already found out something that I thought complimented the poem: Within the same line the speaker goes back to describing her present, saying it is quiet.
In particular there is a rift through everything. The best writing hangs the world with "fresh paint" signs.
They seemed satisfied with that. I would give you an example but they are all invisible. It occurs to me we are walking piles of dust, you and I, and still it smells as sweet as summer winds off the coast of Zanzibar and the sails are up and off we dash into the brine of our contentment.
This poem is for people who think they are wasting their times of their lives going to school; to people who think they should be outside, not wasting their young age. Chirping and flying into the tree.
Instead of reveal inner torment and strife over her situtation, or the life of her past, she is revealing thoughts that he may construe as idle nonsense although they are not. One of my favorite writers sat down beside me with her husband; other book-jacket-familiar faces appeared, smiling at one another and filling up the room.
You can hear the wind constantly blowing through the leaves of the trees non-stop. I can't even talk about the wistful wonder of "Pipkins of the Mimulus. Cops, they're all so young. She and another, perhaps her brother, Jocko, attempt to avoid arrest but are unsuccessful. Mary starts the poem off by a scene where a teacher asks a student a question.
There is a rift running the length of Iceland and so a rift runs through every family and between families a feud. Everything that ever happened to me is just hanging — crushed and sparkling — in the air, waiting to happen to you.
Mostly she shares little bits of perfection, as in this unexpectedly Brautigan-esque snippet: The speaker in these poems, who is responsible for reporting upon the destruction and reunification of the world, is almost always exquisitely alienated from an undefined Other.
All in all conveying to me the mood of wonder, especially when she added the exclamation marks.
Snowflakes When I think of Mary Ruefle, I think of glitter hanging suspended in the air—as if time had stopped exactly when a shower of so many small, flat, reflective particles was beginning its downward descent and all I had to do was walk around and admire this beautiful frozen instant sending unexpected rays of light in every which way.
When I say trout I mean you. Once more a reference to ice, a part of her future showing up in her past. It is about a loss of control and direction in her life. Or off gallivanting around the globe. The book reads like a literary diary that knows it reads like a literary diary. So it was, ice was to be their future.
One of my favorite writers sat down beside me with her husband; other book-jacket-familiar faces appeared, smiling at one another and filling up the room.Eight Meditations about Mary Ruefle. and Honey: Collected Lectures, I walked out of a cold, white bookstore with a slim volume of poetry, its cover even more featureless than the landscape I was stepping into: Trances of I opened the book and flipped to its first poem, “Saga”: Everything that ever happened to me is just hanging.
It is the poet’s imperative, articulated in the title poem: “Explain yourself or vanish.” “Fireworks” begins, “The world was designed and built / to overwhelm and astonish. Which makes it hard to like.” Hard to like indeed. Yet Ruefle’s speaker loves her life.
Ruefle is the recipient of numerous honors, including an Award in Literature from the American Academy of Arts and Letters, a Guggenheim Fellowship, a National Endowment for the Arts Fellowship, and a Whiting Award. I enjoyed reading one of my classmates interpretation of this poem as well, and you can find that here.
“Saga” by Mary Ruefle, sagas originate from an oral tradition of storytelling. The way Ruefle wrote the poem supports this. The poet Mary Ruefle is the author of many books of poetry, including My Private Property (Wave Books, ) and Trances of the Blast (Wave Books, ). It is the poet’s imperative, articulated in the title poem: “Explain yourself or vanish.” “Fireworks” begins, “The world was designed and built / to overwhelm and astonish.
Which makes it hard to like.” Hard to like indeed. Yet Ruefle’s speaker loves her life.Download