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Dunce
Through her many projects across numerous genres, Mary Ruefle has proven herself a singular artist, drawing many fans from around the world to her unique vision. With Dunce she returns to the practice that has always been at her core: the making of poems. With her startlingly fresh sensibility, she enraptures us in poem after poem by the intensity of her attention, with the imaginative flourishes of her being-in-the-world, which is always deep with mysteries, unexpected appearances, and abiding yearning.
96 pages, Hardcover
First published September 3, 2019
15 people are currently reading
1172 people want to read
About the author
Mary Ruefle
46 books434 followersMary Ruefle is an American poet and essayist. The daughter of a military officer, Ruefle was born outside Pittsburgh in 1952, but spent her early life traveling around the U.S. and Europe. She graduated from Bennington College in 1974 with a degree in Literature.
Ruefle's work has been widely published in literary journals. She has received a National Endowment for the Arts fellowship, a Whiting Writer's Award, a Guggenheim fellowship, and an Award in Literature from the American Academy of Arts and Letters. Ruefle currently lives in New England. She teaches in the MFA in Writing program at Vermont College and is visiting faculty with the University of Iowa Writers' Workshop.
For more information on this author, go to:
http://www.wavepoetry.com/authors/50-...
Ruefle's work has been widely published in literary journals. She has received a National Endowment for the Arts fellowship, a Whiting Writer's Award, a Guggenheim fellowship, and an Award in Literature from the American Academy of Arts and Letters. Ruefle currently lives in New England. She teaches in the MFA in Writing program at Vermont College and is visiting faculty with the University of Iowa Writers' Workshop.
For more information on this author, go to:
http://www.wavepoetry.com/authors/50-...
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 97 reviews
November 14, 2019
I found these poems rather strange. I liked a few, but for many of them I felt like I was reading the random thoughts of a very eccentric person. That might work for some, but it was not for me.
September 19, 2019
This book sucker punched me and headbutted me into happiness
September 9, 2019
Some that warmed my heart, others that gutted me, and all of which dazzled and delighted. One I’ll read again and again, probably this week.
May 14, 2022
Singular Dream
I was born in Speckled Eggs Garden.
I will die on Broken Egg Farm.
I’m hopping between them now,
I consider everything
to be friendly
and nothing dubbed.
I am a chick with legs
and yellow hair.
Oh Lord Almighty, creator of
all things beautiful and sick,
who prefers another life on top of this,
who are you to judge?
When Adam and Eve vanished
solemnly into the dark,
shrouding themselves in the forest,
I was timid and nibbling and
stayed behind, betrayed only
by the plucking of my beak
upon the ground you so graciously
provided (thanks).
I did noth with the best,
I am nothing now, do ye
noth with me or not?
Hear me now before I break
O Lord of the Margent,
Lord of noth and straw and all things
sent far, cheerio, sincerely,
I sleep on one leg too!
How We Met
I very much dislike being at a buffet
The first time I saw
the little man in the radish swing
swinging out over the vegetable tray
was himself a radish,
I was happy
I would be happiest if there were
a whole village of radish people,
as many radish people
as there are buffet people
I hope for each radish person
a ‘sister person’ in the room
I am half radish myself
Some say the best thing you can do
is carry a pair of little scissors,
snip small pieces of the world
and take them home with you
These scissors have cut hair
The scissors have cut string
From these scissors come my fragments
You can cut a rose from a radish
or little people who are happy swinging
in a room of bigger people, the excited throng
cut from cloth
At the banquet I stood next to him
When I pushed the swing he smiled at me
Fast friends are the best
It is good to have a bunch of them
We each chose a piece of
preposterous melon and
for the sake of a little quiet
removed the seeds
You see?
From radishes come joy
*
I was born in Speckled Eggs Garden.
I will die on Broken Egg Farm.
I’m hopping between them now,
I consider everything
to be friendly
and nothing dubbed.
I am a chick with legs
and yellow hair.
Oh Lord Almighty, creator of
all things beautiful and sick,
who prefers another life on top of this,
who are you to judge?
When Adam and Eve vanished
solemnly into the dark,
shrouding themselves in the forest,
I was timid and nibbling and
stayed behind, betrayed only
by the plucking of my beak
upon the ground you so graciously
provided (thanks).
I did noth with the best,
I am nothing now, do ye
noth with me or not?
Hear me now before I break
O Lord of the Margent,
Lord of noth and straw and all things
sent far, cheerio, sincerely,
I sleep on one leg too!
How We Met
I very much dislike being at a buffet
The first time I saw
the little man in the radish swing
swinging out over the vegetable tray
was himself a radish,
I was happy
I would be happiest if there were
a whole village of radish people,
as many radish people
as there are buffet people
I hope for each radish person
a ‘sister person’ in the room
I am half radish myself
Some say the best thing you can do
is carry a pair of little scissors,
snip small pieces of the world
and take them home with you
These scissors have cut hair
The scissors have cut string
From these scissors come my fragments
You can cut a rose from a radish
or little people who are happy swinging
in a room of bigger people, the excited throng
cut from cloth
At the banquet I stood next to him
When I pushed the swing he smiled at me
Fast friends are the best
It is good to have a bunch of them
We each chose a piece of
preposterous melon and
for the sake of a little quiet
removed the seeds
You see?
From radishes come joy
*
Read
February 2, 2020all my best Sundays start with poetry. my favourite poem in this was maybe:
Lorraine
Once I had a plum tree.
It was small but sturdy
and every April I threw its petals
in the stream. They intoxicated everyone,
even the postman. Even the postman
knows I am more homesick than E.T.
and lonelier than my middle name.
I live with mice and bats where once
I had toy cars and paper airplanes.
Like a wild swan
with a blue shadow,
I no longer care what I say.
You no longer exist.
I try to remember my dream
but as soon as I turn on the shower
it's gone.
Lorraine
Once I had a plum tree.
It was small but sturdy
and every April I threw its petals
in the stream. They intoxicated everyone,
even the postman. Even the postman
knows I am more homesick than E.T.
and lonelier than my middle name.
I live with mice and bats where once
I had toy cars and paper airplanes.
Like a wild swan
with a blue shadow,
I no longer care what I say.
You no longer exist.
I try to remember my dream
but as soon as I turn on the shower
it's gone.
November 7, 2019
So much of this book made me so happy.
June 26, 2022
I read this book twice through while Ayelet played at the playground. Beside me, the wild grape vines climbed the sycamore and twisted around the spindles of the footbridge, but they showed no sign of bearing fruit. On the first read, I made noises I have not ever made while reading before, at least not to my recollection, and definitely not in public. They were somewhere between a sigh and a chuckle or a sigh and a gasp. Before the second read, I went and gathered eucalyptus leaves, mostly green ones, but some red too, to mark the pages of poems I like. I bent down to pick up a particularly shapely leaf, and, of course, there was a feather* beneath it. Here are the poems I marked: The Eventualist, Sent to the Monk, A New Dawn, The Butter Festival, Boutonniere, Genesis, and The Leaves.
I've read Madness, Rack, and Honey, which covered me like a dark blue quilt, so I was expecting something like that from Ruefle's poems too. But this collection was more like a multi-colored afghan, full of holes I could poke my fingers through, spots where the breath and the breeze could catch me. More handmade, somehow. Purposefully sparse.
*I used the feather to mark Genesis, but then I decided to give it away. Ayelet took me to her favorite climbing tree, the one just past the sycamore with the fairy hollow. I tucked the feather inside with a little prayer. This spring, I put treasures and offerings in the hollow almost every day, but only one is still there, an acorn top. I don't need to keep everything that is special. As soon as I turned to walk away, I looked at the ground and another feather was there. I picked it up and put it into the hollow as well. I went back to Ayelet without looking down. I am trying to not hold onto what doesn't belong to me. We walked over to the creek, and my eyes naturally went to the ground. Another feather. I decided to take a hint, and I opened the book back up the Genesis and tucked it in.
GENESIS
Oh, I said, this is going to be.
And it was.
Oh, I said, this will never happen.
But it did.
A purple fog descended upon the land.
The roots of the trees curled up.
The world was divided into two countries.
Every photograph taken in the first was of people.
Every photograph taken in the second showed none.
All of the girl children were named And.
All of the boy children named Then.
Nammy, as you can see, the story is still being written, even as I quibble with my own pen.
I've read Madness, Rack, and Honey, which covered me like a dark blue quilt, so I was expecting something like that from Ruefle's poems too. But this collection was more like a multi-colored afghan, full of holes I could poke my fingers through, spots where the breath and the breeze could catch me. More handmade, somehow. Purposefully sparse.
*I used the feather to mark Genesis, but then I decided to give it away. Ayelet took me to her favorite climbing tree, the one just past the sycamore with the fairy hollow. I tucked the feather inside with a little prayer. This spring, I put treasures and offerings in the hollow almost every day, but only one is still there, an acorn top. I don't need to keep everything that is special. As soon as I turned to walk away, I looked at the ground and another feather was there. I picked it up and put it into the hollow as well. I went back to Ayelet without looking down. I am trying to not hold onto what doesn't belong to me. We walked over to the creek, and my eyes naturally went to the ground. Another feather. I decided to take a hint, and I opened the book back up the Genesis and tucked it in.
GENESIS
Oh, I said, this is going to be.
And it was.
Oh, I said, this will never happen.
But it did.
A purple fog descended upon the land.
The roots of the trees curled up.
The world was divided into two countries.
Every photograph taken in the first was of people.
Every photograph taken in the second showed none.
All of the girl children were named And.
All of the boy children named Then.
Nammy, as you can see, the story is still being written, even as I quibble with my own pen.
October 6, 2019
!!! half these poems are absolutely fantastic. the other half fall a little too far into the childish-whimsy aspect of ruefle’s tone.
February 9, 2023
I liked when she was a chicken
March 17, 2024
Quote:
Ho elska løvetann
men hata sirkus.
Ho elska løvetann
men hata sirkus.
September 10, 2025
A good book to recommend to someone who doesn't read a lot of contemporary poetry and really just wants a few thoughtful lines to read each morning
March 17, 2021
I definitely felt like a dunce while reading this poetry collection.
Many of the poems seemed as if they’d been composed by a computer, with randomized word choices and unfocused subject matter. Maybe these poems were translated from English into another language and then translated back again, creating this odd scrapyard of a collection that sounds like a Lewis Carroll fever dream. I wouldn’t mind the vagueness if the language were fresh and captivating, but like the poem’s meanings, it’s often flat and lifeless.
Take these overwrought stanzas from “Happy Birthday”:
Or take the opening to “Suddenly”:
Or this stanza from “A Morning Person”:
Most of the poems have a similar vibe (I could quote “Searchlight” in its entirety as the epitome of this “randomly generated imagery” format). The author’s style is very stream of consciousness and dreamlike, which may work for some readers, but it was absolute agony for me. With the mention of erasure poetry in the author’s bio, I wonder if many of these are in fact erasure poems, which could account for their stilted quality. They just feel like somebody’s practice poems, not the work of a seasoned poet.
These poems also manage to include all of my pet peeves in poetry: hypothetical questions, exclamation points, random rhymes, and metafictional poems about poems, which I personally find tacky when overused (at the end of one, the author declares, “I hate my poems,” and I felt somehow validated).
Still, amongst the rotten word salad, there are a few fresh bites of insight and imagery. There’s a sense of odd and inviting humor, an ache of loneliness that isn’t quite lonely (an ode to introverts), and a pervasive wonder about the world that is intrinsic in poets. Two poems I enjoyed were “Interlude for a Solitary Flute,” in which the narrator muses what it must be like for one half of an old married couple to lose the other, and “Grandma Moses,” where the poet’s playful language is on full display (“When the barn burns / study a cat’s tongue / for the shape of the flames / for flames lick the air”).
I also gravitated toward “Crackerbell,” a beautifully introspective poem that opens with this:
As much as I’ve ranted about my dislike for this collection, I’m curious to read Ruefle’s essays and other works, if only to try to find what I’m missing.
Many of the poems seemed as if they’d been composed by a computer, with randomized word choices and unfocused subject matter. Maybe these poems were translated from English into another language and then translated back again, creating this odd scrapyard of a collection that sounds like a Lewis Carroll fever dream. I wouldn’t mind the vagueness if the language were fresh and captivating, but like the poem’s meanings, it’s often flat and lifeless.
Take these overwrought stanzas from “Happy Birthday”:
“This day
crosses the river of tenderness
like a berry to the rescue
This day
was wet on top and happy
like a cupcake
This day
the mystic drama of a clumsy hare
is filmed in gold”
Or take the opening to “Suddenly”:
“It’s like there’s more oxygen
in the air or something
or 107 babies’ faces have been enlarged
and are drifting across the sky”
Or this stanza from “A Morning Person”:
“Soon I will vacuum the day,
not a speck of it will remain,
I will suck it up like a bee
at the tit, making a hoopla.”
Most of the poems have a similar vibe (I could quote “Searchlight” in its entirety as the epitome of this “randomly generated imagery” format). The author’s style is very stream of consciousness and dreamlike, which may work for some readers, but it was absolute agony for me. With the mention of erasure poetry in the author’s bio, I wonder if many of these are in fact erasure poems, which could account for their stilted quality. They just feel like somebody’s practice poems, not the work of a seasoned poet.
These poems also manage to include all of my pet peeves in poetry: hypothetical questions, exclamation points, random rhymes, and metafictional poems about poems, which I personally find tacky when overused (at the end of one, the author declares, “I hate my poems,” and I felt somehow validated).
Still, amongst the rotten word salad, there are a few fresh bites of insight and imagery. There’s a sense of odd and inviting humor, an ache of loneliness that isn’t quite lonely (an ode to introverts), and a pervasive wonder about the world that is intrinsic in poets. Two poems I enjoyed were “Interlude for a Solitary Flute,” in which the narrator muses what it must be like for one half of an old married couple to lose the other, and “Grandma Moses,” where the poet’s playful language is on full display (“When the barn burns / study a cat’s tongue / for the shape of the flames / for flames lick the air”).
I also gravitated toward “Crackerbell,” a beautifully introspective poem that opens with this:
“I grew up
I became myself and
was haunted by it
and I loved to wander, utterly alone
listening to the sound of tears
striving to guess my own secret”
As much as I’ve ranted about my dislike for this collection, I’m curious to read Ruefle’s essays and other works, if only to try to find what I’m missing.
September 16, 2019
no review - interview forthcoming!
December 21, 2019
I enjoy Ruefle’s playful poetry because it is ultimately without pretension. Few poets make me giggle like Mary. Aesthetically too, I love her books themselves, always simple black-and-white with clean, sans serif type. Why that matters to me, I don’t know, but it does. That said, I thought this collection was lackluster compared to her previous. I even enjoyed her essay collection (Madness, Rack, and Honey) more. Dunce was - for me - a whiff. Perhaps I’m just not a good reader right now during a busy life season, but nothing really stuck here. Anyhoot, my favorite poem was I Cannot Be Quiet An Hour. I love too this line: “... this day / was wet on top and happy / like a cupcake.”
October 2, 2020
A very strange and challenging collection of poems. I'm still not sure I liked any of these poems, but that is beside the point. Many of them are nonsensical, and often times trip of the tongue. And yet they are autobiographical without the implications of a standard timeline. The success of the poet is that her nonsensical poems are intentional, everything felt intentional in the book. All of it is experimental which is exciting and confusing and frustrating. But I feel like I learned something more about poetry, I learned something more about writing. Alas, I need to give myself time to digest this strange collection until I know what 'it' is.
June 7, 2020
I don't feel comfortable rating a poem book in the first place. I see poetry as a form of art and the fact that it did not resonate with me doesn't mean much about the art but more about me.
And these poems did not.
3 stars just reflect that. Nothing else.
And these poems did not.
3 stars just reflect that. Nothing else.
June 28, 2023
rereading some books to maybe teach to students this upcoming semester. idk how i would teach this lol, but on second read, it’s a bit more legible, still blows me away
September 28, 2022
absolutely NO ONE is doing it like her.
halloween
the corpse had a motion detector
and when you approached it
it sat up and stretched out its arms
its eyes rolled back to white
and then the most peculiar thing-
it turned its head around,
all the way around, 360,
then said something supid.
it wasn't gross or funny
in no way frightening
rather sweetly sad especially
when that head turned round
and reminded me of my mother
and at the thought of my mother
there was a corpse in me,
it sat up and stretched out its arms
rolled those eyeballs back
turned its head all the way around
then said something stupid
like old long since mum.
if only i'd sung the whole song.
should old acquaintance be forgot,
and never brought to mind?
[also: a morning person, nixie, little stream, patience, and special delivery.]
halloween
the corpse had a motion detector
and when you approached it
it sat up and stretched out its arms
its eyes rolled back to white
and then the most peculiar thing-
it turned its head around,
all the way around, 360,
then said something supid.
it wasn't gross or funny
in no way frightening
rather sweetly sad especially
when that head turned round
and reminded me of my mother
and at the thought of my mother
there was a corpse in me,
it sat up and stretched out its arms
rolled those eyeballs back
turned its head all the way around
then said something stupid
like old long since mum.
if only i'd sung the whole song.
should old acquaintance be forgot,
and never brought to mind?
[also: a morning person, nixie, little stream, patience, and special delivery.]
Read
January 15, 2020As I was reading this collection I felt "I don't get this at all" and it seemed really slight and whimsical. But I keep thinking about "Halloween" and the way an animatronic corpse makes her think of her mother, "a corpse in me." Elisa Gabbert's review helped me appreciate these poems more, though I still feel I don't really get them: https://www.nytimes.com/2019/09/18/bo...
March 4, 2021
Beautiful book. Okay poems.
September 12, 2023
i have a feeling i will be returning back to these forever
August 13, 2025
Sorry to Ms Ruefle who I respect immensely but this particular collection just wasn’t hitting for me the way I wanted
June 14, 2024
Poetry good
This entire review has been hidden because of spoilers.
October 16, 2020
The way she uses language, not at the tip of the sensible but one rung of abstraction above it, lets her paint whole worlds for you to daydream in.
January 8, 2020
Genesis
Oh, I said, this is going to be.
And it was.
Oh, I said, this will never happen.
But it did.
And a purple fog descended upon the land.
The roots of trees curled up.
The world was divided into two countries.
Every photograph taken in the first was of people.
Every photograph taken in the second showed none.
All of the girl children were named And.
All of the boy children named Then.
Oh, I said, this is going to be.
And it was.
Oh, I said, this will never happen.
But it did.
And a purple fog descended upon the land.
The roots of trees curled up.
The world was divided into two countries.
Every photograph taken in the first was of people.
Every photograph taken in the second showed none.
All of the girl children were named And.
All of the boy children named Then.
December 26, 2023
We all have a picture of the Dunce sitting in the corner with their pointed hat, but we also all have the sneaking suspicion that the Dunce knows something we don’t. As one of the poems says, in failing we get to live another, double life. This book explores the knowing ignorance of the things we refuse to face, the difference between existing and thinking about existence, and the limits of our language and, even, poetry.
These poems are beautifully crafted fables satirizing our refusals to face mortality, inabilities to enjoy each moment of existence, and impulses to describe and know what will always elude us. This is a poet at the top of their craft writing poems that poke fun at the poetic impulse of gazing reflection. One poem stops in the middle of a reflection on the beauty of nature to ask, self consciously, if they should add a rapt contemplation; another ends with “I hate my poems.”
These little tightly packed fables are sometimes puzzles hard to crack and can leave the reader feeling like a dunce, but they never fail to leave you with the sense of a smile behind the satire and a fascination for the source of the wonder of a life that never fails to leaves us staring stupidly at it.
These poems are beautifully crafted fables satirizing our refusals to face mortality, inabilities to enjoy each moment of existence, and impulses to describe and know what will always elude us. This is a poet at the top of their craft writing poems that poke fun at the poetic impulse of gazing reflection. One poem stops in the middle of a reflection on the beauty of nature to ask, self consciously, if they should add a rapt contemplation; another ends with “I hate my poems.”
These little tightly packed fables are sometimes puzzles hard to crack and can leave the reader feeling like a dunce, but they never fail to leave you with the sense of a smile behind the satire and a fascination for the source of the wonder of a life that never fails to leaves us staring stupidly at it.
June 2, 2022
when I like a Mary Ruefle poem I really like a Mary Ruefle poem. her poetry can be spacious, sonorous, poignant, and gently holding a riddles which is a huge thing I love in poetry. there is an easiness to it all, which is appealing and inviting, a real self love. that said, so many poems in this book feel a combination of easy and Arch, poems that feel V MEANINGFUL but haven't stopped to ask themselves what they are and then go after that. that is a one beautiful ethic of poetry, but not one I want to spend a whole book with.
I believe one real issue of mine comes from her approach to repetition, which is also something I spend a lot of time thinking and writing about and working with. some things feel thrown in without context, they need more repetition of sentiment to feel more than CLEVER, and others feel repeated to death in a way that slows the pace and feel of the poem and obstructs it.
I believe one real issue of mine comes from her approach to repetition, which is also something I spend a lot of time thinking and writing about and working with. some things feel thrown in without context, they need more repetition of sentiment to feel more than CLEVER, and others feel repeated to death in a way that slows the pace and feel of the poem and obstructs it.
March 24, 2023
I...
learned it is Thursday
___
This day
announcing
the importance of confetti
___
Oh blank and hopeless days!
Oh long sleepless nights!
They are forgotten now
as I turn on the cold clear
water of the stream.
All the rivers of the world
convene in me. They rush
over my hands, they enter
my mouth, they cover my face.
I am compelled to drink my own
tears, as you too will be
when you wake.
___
In the meantime, walking here
in the wind and rain,
apparently inspired,
I brace myself for a sortie.
learned it is Thursday
___
This day
announcing
the importance of confetti
___
Oh blank and hopeless days!
Oh long sleepless nights!
They are forgotten now
as I turn on the cold clear
water of the stream.
All the rivers of the world
convene in me. They rush
over my hands, they enter
my mouth, they cover my face.
I am compelled to drink my own
tears, as you too will be
when you wake.
___
In the meantime, walking here
in the wind and rain,
apparently inspired,
I brace myself for a sortie.
January 5, 2020
Weird, good, sloppy, vaulting, candid, sparkling poems. Some pretty high highs and a handful off real duds. Hard to reconcile some of these poems as part of the same collection.
4 stars for the flourishes of unimaginable language and the privilege of getting to watch a manically imaginative mind at work.
4 stars for the flourishes of unimaginable language and the privilege of getting to watch a manically imaginative mind at work.
January 25, 2020
Mary Ruefle’s poems feel airy and start small, concerned with an empty drawer while cleaning, which somehow opens into larger questions, a memory of friendship formed over radishes, learning to say goodbye. This collection is no different. The middle slows a bit but the series of poems that open and close the book are lovely and worth getting the book for.
Displaying 1 - 30 of 97 reviews