Skip to main content

Mary Ruefle

Visiting Poet

Mary Ruefle

Mary Ruefle is a poet of visionary imagination, in love with the world and the power of art. She sees the strange in the ordinary and vice versa. She weaves them together by way of wild association, and then uses omission and conflation to blur the lines. Christened the “Poet Laureate of the City of Ideas” by the Harvard University Press, Mary Ruefle describes herself as a “wandering fool, searching and seeking, searching and seeking, with no end in sight.”

Born in Pittsburgh in 1952, Mary Ruefle grew up traveling throughout Europe and the U.S. with her military family. She graduated with a degree in literature from Bennington College, and has since gone on to publish ten poetry collections, including Trances of the Blast, Among the Musk Ox People, The Adamant, which was awarded the Iowa Poetry Prize, and Selected Poems, which won the 2011 William Carlos Williams Award from the Poetry Society of America. She has also published The Most of It, a book of prose, a comic book Go Home and Go to Bed!, and Madness, Rack and Honey: Collected Lectures, which was a finalist for the 2012 National Book Critics Circle Award. While they were in fact delivered as lectures, these pieces levitate and swoop, ponder and dive and careen, just as her poems do. She is also an erasure artist, whose treatments of nineteenth century texts have been exhibited in museums and galleries, and published in A Little White Shadow.

Since Ruefle is interested in the pliability of language as raw material, it is no surprise that she gravitated toward erasure, creating poems by erasing much of the surrounding text of an already existing work. Ruefle’s erasures are sketches of life and memory, showcasing how “presence is born of absence, and an absence made present.” In many ways, her own poems similarly inhabit the realm of negative capability, a term Keats first used to describe the desire to live in the uncertainty of human existence without relying on explanations and reason. She traces the boundaries between the subjective world and the world everyone else lives in, giving weight and wings to the unseen and the surreal. Ruefle is at ease with uncertainty. As she told The Volta, “The difference between myself and a student is that I am better at not knowing what I am doing.”

While her overarching themes are universal—loneliness, love, death—Ruefle interrogates the nature of the lyric itself, stitching together speech rhythms, sounds, visual flashes and ephemera with the thread of the overheard and the under the breath. Her “talky” speakers favor fragments, direct address, questions, misreadings, and conjectures. Ruefle writes, “The power of the human imagination is to invent ways that enable us to survive, perhaps survival is but an act of the human mind,” and she delights her readers with how the mind works when it’s working most pleasurably. To quote the poet David Rivard, “Even at her most outlandishly playful—and who is more outlandish than Ruefle?—she speaks with an unbelievably sly wisdom.”

Mary Ruefle has received various awards including an award in Literature from the Academy of Arts and Letters, a Guggenheim Fellowship, a National Endowment for the Arts Fellowship, and a Whiting Award. She currently teaches in the MFA program at Vermont College and lives in Bennington, Vermont.

is a poet of visionary imagination, in love with the world and the power of art. She sees the strange in the ordinary and vice versa. She weaves them together by way of wild association, and then uses omission and conflation to blur the lines. Christened the “Poet Laureate of the City of Ideas” by the Harvard University Press, Mary Ruefle describes herself as a “wandering fool, searching and seeking, searching and seeking, with no end in sight.”

Born in Pittsburgh in 1952, Mary Ruefle grew up traveling throughout Europe and the U.S. with her military family. She graduated with a degree in literature from Bennington College, and has since gone on to publish ten poetry collections, including Trances of the Blast, Among the Musk Ox People, The Adamant, which was awarded the Iowa Poetry Prize, and Selected Poems, which won the 2011 William Carlos Williams Award from the Poetry Society of America. She has also published The Most of It, a book of prose, a comic book Go Home and Go to Bed!, and Madness, Rack and Honey: Collected Lectures, which was a finalist for the 2012 National Book Critics Circle Award. While they were in fact delivered as lectures, these pieces levitate and swoop, ponder and dive and careen, just as her poems do. She is also an erasure artist, whose treatments of nineteenth century texts have been exhibited in museums and galleries, and published in A Little White Shadow.

Since Ruefle is interested in the pliability of language as raw material, it is no surprise that she gravitated toward erasure, creating poems by erasing much of the surrounding text of an already existing work. Ruefle’s erasures are sketches of life and memory, showcasing how “presence is born of absence, and an absence made present.” In many ways, her own poems similarly inhabit the realm of negative capability, a term Keats first used to describe the desire to live in the uncertainty of human existence without relying on explanations and reason. She traces the boundaries between the subjective world and the world everyone else lives in, giving weight and wings to the unseen and the surreal. Ruefle is at ease with uncertainty. As she told The Volta, “The difference between myself and a student is that I am better at not knowing what I am doing.”

While her overarching themes are universal—loneliness, love, death—Ruefle interrogates the nature of the lyric itself, stitching together speech rhythms, sounds, visual flashes and ephemera with the thread of the overheard and the under the breath. Her “talky” speakers favor fragments, direct address, questions, misreadings, and conjectures. Ruefle writes, “The power of the human imagination is to invent ways that enable us to survive, perhaps survival is but an act of the human mind,” and she delights her readers with how the mind works when it’s working most pleasurably. To quote the poet David Rivard, “Even at her most outlandishly playful—and who is more outlandish than Ruefle?—she speaks with an unbelievably sly wisdom.”

Mary Ruefle has received various awards including an award in Literature from the Academy of Arts and Letters, a Guggenheim Fellowship, a National Endowment for the Arts Fellowship, and a Whiting Award. She currently teaches in the MFA program at Vermont College and lives in Bennington, Vermont.

is a poet of visionary imagination, in love with the world and the power of art. She sees the strange in the ordinary and vice versa. She weaves them together by way of wild association, and then uses omission and conflation to blur the lines. Christened the “Poet Laureate of the City of Ideas” by the Harvard University Press, Mary Ruefle describes herself as a “wandering fool, searching and seeking, searching and seeking, with no end in sight.”

Born in Pittsburgh in 1952, Mary Ruefle grew up traveling throughout Europe and the U.S. with her military family. She graduated with a degree in literature from Bennington College, and has since gone on to publish ten poetry collections, including Trances of the Blast, Among the Musk Ox People, The Adamant, which was awarded the Iowa Poetry Prize, and Selected Poems, which won the 2011 William Carlos Williams Award from the Poetry Society of America. She has also published The Most of It, a book of prose, a comic book Go Home and Go to Bed!, and Madness, Rack and Honey: Collected Lectures, which was a finalist for the 2012 National Book Critics Circle Award. While they were in fact delivered as lectures, these pieces levitate and swoop, ponder and dive and careen, just as her poems do. She is also an erasure artist, whose treatments of nineteenth century texts have been exhibited in museums and galleries, and published in A Little White Shadow.

Since Ruefle is interested in the pliability of language as raw material, it is no surprise that she gravitated toward erasure, creating poems by erasing much of the surrounding text of an already existing work. Ruefle’s erasures are sketches of life and memory, showcasing how “presence is born of absence, and an absence made present.” In many ways, her own poems similarly inhabit the realm of negative capability, a term Keats first used to describe the desire to live in the uncertainty of human existence without relying on explanations and reason. She traces the boundaries between the subjective world and the world everyone else lives in, giving weight and wings to the unseen and the surreal. Ruefle is at ease with uncertainty. As she told The Volta, “The difference between myself and a student is that I am better at not knowing what I am doing.”

While her overarching themes are universal—loneliness, love, death—Ruefle interrogates the nature of the lyric itself, stitching together speech rhythms, sounds, visual flashes and ephemera with the thread of the overheard and the under the breath. Her “talky” speakers favor fragments, direct address, questions, misreadings, and conjectures. Ruefle writes, “The power of the human imagination is to invent ways that enable us to survive, perhaps survival is but an act of the human mind,” and she delights her readers with how the mind works when it’s working most pleasurably. To quote the poet David Rivard, “Even at her most outlandishly playful—and who is more outlandish than Ruefle?—she speaks with an unbelievably sly wisdom.”

Mary Ruefle has received various awards including an award in Literature from the Academy of Arts and Letters, a Guggenheim Fellowship, a National Endowment for the Arts Fellowship, and a Whiting Award. She currently teaches in the MFA program at Vermont College and lives in Bennington, Vermont.

Select Poems

On chilly autumn evenings I build a bonfire

and think of the woodchuck, a waddling rodent

who can no longer fit in any of the tunnels

he’s built, their labyrinth a sorrow

to his forlorn highness who has one eye,

even it nearly buried in old hair.

What does place mean to him?

A chunk of land thrown out

with the rest. A bigger chunk

on which he sits and thinks.

How inaccurate of me, but moths

are too great a subject for one lifetime.

Winter passes, a powdery flounce.

The stars oscillate in their panic.

On brisk spring nights

I can hear the frogs singing in their disbelief.

What has happened to the woodchuck?

Summer goes about her work evenly, and soon

the cold will force a shaft from the moon

to the bonfire, an enormous eyebeam

from which, my friends,

we need to hide.

From SELECTED POEMS (Wave Books, 2010)

God have mercy on me. This is the diary of a lost soul

(I am also the author of No Bed of Roses). Apparently

I cannot live without parentheses. To live without

parentheses would be as scary as living without

parents, I mean, to have been born out of nothing.

When someone stands before you and puts their hands

on your hips they are acting like parentheses,

which is why a great many thinkers come from Paris,

where lovers embrace on the quays and intellectuals

watch them from windows, taking notes. I will buy anything

that comes from Paris, which is another reason God

should have mercy on me. I believe Paris is a place where

everyone is marvelously alive, each in their own way,

and the moon is different, too—it never disappears or goes

away, it never looks like a parenthesis, but grows continually

round till it breaks of its own weight and pieces of it fall

like fireworks (!) and the lovers watch and the intellectuals

take notes and everything is endlessly fascinating

in a spectacular way. I should be more Parisian. That is

my thesis. But I know from the movies Paris is nothing

like that, it is full of motorcycles and crooks and the clothing

is all too small because no one cares enough to replace it

and people continually grow out of it without even bothering

to notice. But I notice. From my little apartment in Massachusetts

I notice and I care. God have mercy on me!

I would lie down and put a dagger in my heart

if only I knew how and where and why.

From SELECTED POEMS (Wave Books, 2010)

I was going to ardently pursue this day

but you know how these things go.

I am a Hun and the sun is my chieftain

and chieftains are as they appear to their Huns…

So, sunless, I go from being a sleepy angel wearing god’s toga

to a woman in a bathrobe wandering around a well-appointed house.

The transformations are astonishing; like a birch in April

the blood rushes to my head, only it’s not April

and all the signs say don’t go too soon, don’t go too far,

don’t even pass. The birch stands still and these things

are of some consequence in the country. And a domineering

little bird has eaten all the seeds. I think one day

it will build its nest in my abandoned cranium.

I study nature so as not to do foolish things.

For instance, in the worst windstorms

only the most delicate things survive:

a vireo’s nest intact on the lawn next to the roots

of a monstrous tree. Life makes so much sense!

There goes the coach. The coach is of real gold

and the new queen is in it. I like trips, I book them all,

and I’m one of the lucky: my memories are actually finer

than those of those who go. I suspect the queen is going

to the despot’s private party where they shove sweetmeats

down your décolletage and have a goose so slowly roasted

the poor bird cries whenever you pull off a piece

and everyone shrieks with joy. What does the outer world

know of the inner? It’s like listening to wolves or loons…

Here comes the snow, that ought to make the children

happy as parrots flying over a gorge with a bamboo bridge

built like a xylophone and fruit bats hanging upside down

who look at the world and decide to go airy in ardent pursuit

of a plum. But what does the inner world know

of the outer? And will I find out soon? That word,

that word has kept me company all my life.

From SELECTED POEMS (Wave Books, 2010)

About Mary

Poetry Center Reading Dates: April 2015