TOP53-DES50
This Old Poem #53:
Leslie Adrienne Miller's A Connect-the-Dots Picture
Copyright © by Dan Schneider, 4/5/03
Ever met someone who just cannot stop talking? Ever wonder what that
person is called? Here’s the word- a logorrhetic; they suffer from logorrhea-
aka diarrhea of the mouth. Many poets nowadays suffer from this affliction &
sobriquet. Rather, I should say many ‘poets’ suffer from this. True poets
know that concision is the essence of poetry. But, throw some clichés together,
break some prose into lines at an odd place, & you- too- can call yourself a
‘poet’. Such is the fate of Leslie Adrienne Miller- a mediocre wordsmith who
has no real clue as to the difference between poetry & prose. To be fair,
she is not the worst of this current (in?)breed, but she is almost archetypal as
a clueless Academician. Witness the
c.v.:
Leslie Adrienne Miller's fourth full-length collection of poems, Eat
Quite Everything You See, came out from Graywolf Press in spring 2002. Her
previous collections include Yesterday Had a Man In It (Carnegie Mellon
University Press, 1998), Ungodliness (CMU, 1994) and Staying Up For
Love (CMU, 1990), and "No River," winner of the Stanley Hanks
Memorial Award from the St. Louis Poetry Center.
She has won
a number of prizes and awards and has published in a number of magazine and
anthologies including American Poetry Review, Ploughshares, Antioch Review, The
Georgia Review and The New England Review.
Currently
associate Professor of English at the University of St. Thomas in St. Paul,
Minn., she holds an M.F.A. from the University of Iowa Writer's Workshop and a
Ph.D. from the University of Houston.
Let’s take a look at the titular poem, & let’s see if it really is poetry or randomly broken prose:
A Connect-the-Dots Picture
The
pine tree at the corner of the lot
where my childhood home, a ranch house,
sits like a snapped sugar wafer on a slope.
Tents in Upton’s field collapsed and pushed
aside for a game of kickball or just tumbling.
The oldest Upton girl whom I adore,
nearer adulthood than I, her head in a sky
I cannot but wish to see. Follow me,
she says, I will show you something really neat.
And I go up the stone path and stairs
among the lolling day lilies and ivy
behind the marvelous girl to a place
nested in trees where a garden hose
uncoils in her hand. There, she says,
holding the metal rimmed end to my face.
I must be nine, possibly ten. I love Christy.
She taught me to make ice cream in a bucket.
She combed my hair as if I were a doll.
She took my hand and led me away from the gang
of boys in the field where I tried so hard
to be good and strong. There, she says tenderly,
look in there, and I cast my whole being
into her command. Some wonder is about
to happen in the dark hole of the hose.
Sputter of laughter, and more laughter,
and I realize I cannot see her, or anything.
There has been a blast of air, water. I think
I am crying and hope not. In this world
tears have never been good. Once, when Casey cried,
his sister forbade me to tell anyone, ever,
and she smacked him till he stopped.
But now my face is wet, my hair, my loose
summer shirt which I like more than all the others
in my drawer because it has two girls on it,
hand in hand, and they wear shirts exactly
like this one. No, I am not sobbing. Good.
But I am cold, and my eyes sting.
I try to look where Christy was and may
still be when the smarting stops. She is trying
to teach me something adult. Complicated.
How it feels to be stung by the force
of your own desire turned back on you,
and the possible responses: regret or fury.
One day I will understand that one is antidote
to the other. Years later in the darkening room
of a country not my own, real history heaped
in the corners, I stand next to a man
who has just begun to be weary of my hopefulness,
unwavering desire that simply asks for it.
His is a small travesty, a forgotten promise
that left me waiting all of an afternoon.
Smell of wet stones, gnats hovering
around the spigot dribble. My shirt has not
been ruined, Christy clucks, unnerved at this kid
who stands in mute trust, dripping, comic,
obscenely forlorn. This was not the point.
She meant to send me screaming like any child,
home—but home, if ever I had one
is on another continent, inching away.
The man draws back from the insipid scene,
unpleasant female disappointment gathering
in his room, ruining the evening, filling his shoes,
making the air too close. The offending garden hose
settles far under the ivy, and it is intolerable
that I should keep standing here expectantly,
taking it, asking for more, still too much
in love. It was that, then, that Christy wanted
to wash from my face. In the long minute
of my blindness, the summer afternoon went
cruelly on in my ear. A horsefly. The dog
somewhere itching itself. Smack
of the rubber ball against a boy’s toe
down in the field. Small shush of ivy
where the hose falls. Drips on the stone.
It’s only water, dummy, she says, disgusted.
I look straight into her eyes and she sees
she hasn’t gotten rid of it, that appalling
ardor. Too much of something sticky, serious,
and she hates me for it.
Are you still awake? This poem is not as cliché-laden as most of her tripe but it is dull, dull, DULL! How many times have we seen ‘poems’ written by female poetasters about lost love, teen angst, unfulfilled dreams- count the # of words that are overblown & melodramatic, the # of overdone modifiers. The poem starts with a nice idea by just stringing images together & hoping to force the reader to ‘connect’ things. Unfortunately the images are so snooze-inducing that there is no care to. Same with the trite narrative- & hints of (oolala) lesbianism. In order to maximize this poem we must minimize its length. By just removing lines we do just that. We combine a few, split the poem in to 2 quatrains (to, again, force a reader to connect), & end the poem without any punctuation to affect its being left hanging; to again force a reader to attempt to connect whatever they want to imbue it with. Read:
A Connect-the-Dots Picture
And
I go up the stone path and stairs
behind the marvelous girl to a place
I must be nine, possibly ten. I love being
and I realize I cannot see her, or anything.
But now my face is wet, my hair, my loose
hand in hand. But I am cold, and my eyes sting
of my blindness, the summer afternoon went
cruelly on in my ear. A horsefly. The dog
In these 8 lines note the improvement. We’ve dropped the trite
narrative & truly get some unique phrasings. The speaker goes behind a
marvelous girl, & to a place where he/she must be a certain age. Then line 3
ends with an existential statement, & line 4 with self-denial. The 2nd
stanza starts with a near breathlessness, & another interesting twist- the
summer afternoon’s entry within the speaker’s ear. We then ends with
observations of things.
This is the makings of a possibly good poem. The original was prose.
Don’t believe me? Reread the original without breaks & tell me why any of
the breaks in the original are there:
A Connect-the-Dots Picture
The pine tree at the corner of the lot where my childhood home, a ranch
house, sits like a snapped sugar wafer on a slope. Tents in Upton’s field
collapsed and pushed aside for a game of kickball or just tumbling. The oldest
Upton girl whom I adore, nearer adulthood than I, her head in a sky I cannot but
wish to see. Follow me, she says, I will show you something really
neat. And I go up the stone path and stairs among the lolling day lilies and
ivy behind the marvelous girl to a place nested in trees where a garden hose
uncoils in her hand. There, she says, holding the metal rimmed end to my
face. I must be nine, possibly ten. I love Christy. She taught me to make ice
cream in a bucket. She combed my hair as if I were a doll. She took my hand and
led me away from the gang of boys in the field where I tried so hard to be good
and strong. There, she says tenderly, look in there, and I cast my
whole being into her command. Some wonder is about to happen in the dark hole of
the hose. Sputter of laughter, and more laughter, and I realize I cannot see
her, or anything. There has been a blast of air, water. I think I am crying and
hope not. In this world tears have never been good. Once, when Casey cried, his
sister forbade me to tell anyone, ever, and she smacked him till he stopped. But
now my face is wet, my hair, my loose summer shirt which I like more than all
the others in my drawer because it has two girls on it, hand in hand, and they
wear shirts exactly like this one. No, I am not sobbing. Good. But I am cold,
and my eyes sting. I try to look where Christy was and may still be when the
smarting stops. She is trying to teach me something adult. Complicated. How it
feels to be stung by the force of your own desire turned back on you, and the
possible responses: regret or fury. One day I will understand that one is
antidote to the other. Years later in the darkening room of a country not my
own, real history heaped in the corners, I stand next to a man who has just
begun to be weary of my hopefulness, unwavering desire that simply asks for it.
His is a small travesty, a forgotten promise that left me waiting all of an
afternoon. Smell of wet stones, gnats hovering around the spigot dribble. My
shirt has not been ruined, Christy clucks, unnerved at this kid who stands in
mute trust, dripping, comic, obscenely forlorn. This was not the point. She
meant to send me screaming like any child, home—but home, if ever I had
one is on another continent, inching away. The man draws back from the insipid
scene, unpleasant female disappointment gathering in his room, ruining the
evening, filling his shoes, making the air too close. The offending garden hose
settles far under the ivy, and it is intolerable that I should keep standing
here expectantly, taking it, asking for more, still too much in love. It was
that, then, that Christy wanted to wash from my face. In the long minute of my
blindness, the summer afternoon went cruelly on in my ear. A horsefly. The dog
somewhere itching itself. Smack of the rubber ball against a boy’s toe down in
the field. Small shush of ivy where the hose falls. Drips on the stone. It’s
only water, dummy, she says, disgusted. I look straight into her eyes and
she sees she hasn’t gotten rid of it, that appalling ardor. Too much of
something sticky, serious, and she hates me for it.
Any questions?
Final Score: (1-100):
Leslie Adrienne Miller's A Connect-the-Dots Picture: 45
TOP’s A
Connect-the-Dots Picture: 70
Return to TOP