Classic and Contemporary Poetry: Explained

Dara Wier’s "Attitude of Rags" is a poem steeped in loss, fragmentation, and the disorientation of language itself. The poem immediately establishes its theme of linguistic and existential disorder: “It felt like a story sorry it’d lost all its sentences, / Like a sentence looking for its syntax.” Here, Wier portrays a narrative—perhaps life itself—that has lost its structural integrity, leaving behind a sense of displacement and incoherence. The repetition of “sentence” reinforces both the idea of grammatical disarray and the notion of an imposed fate, as in a prison sentence.

The poet extends this imagery of dispossession: “All of the words had homeless, unemployed, orphan / Written all over their faces.” The language itself is personified as displaced, wandering without a home or purpose. This suggests a world in which meaning is unstable, where even the most fundamental elements of communication—words—have been abandoned or rendered powerless. The political and economic undertones of “homeless” and “unemployed” add another layer of interpretation: perhaps this is a reflection on societal neglect, a commentary on how those without stability are left voiceless.

The poem then takes on a surreal and almost tragicomic quality: “It had that parboiled, simmering, half-baked look / Of curiosity about its mouth.” This description paints the scene as something unfinished, something simmering but never fully cooked. The phrase “like a month of Sundays / Has in the mind of a non-believer, a true back-slider” evokes a prolonged, unending period of stasis or boredom, as if time itself has become oppressive. The “back-slider”—a term often used in religious contexts to describe someone who has lapsed in faith—implies a deep existential doubt, a reluctance to believe in any coherent or divine order.

The next lines emphasize a world where certainty is fading: “One got the impression reluctance was waxing. / One wanted to say passion was taking a beating.” The poem’s use of “one” rather than a specific subject creates a detached, universalized voice, as if the feelings of hesitancy and loss are not just personal but collective. Passion, often associated with vitality and purpose, is “taking a beating,” suggesting a decline in emotional fervor, a loss of something once intense.

Then, in one of the poem’s most striking images, Wier gives us: “The feathers of their feelings were all scattered.” This evokes the imagery of something once whole, now plucked apart and dispersed. Feelings, like birds, have taken flight, leaving behind only scattered remnants. The surrealist turn that follows is both absurd and eerie: “It was the kind of day were one to see a flock of / Creepy baby angel heads attached at their necks to / Pitch-black aerodynamically preposterous little wings / Clustering at the sum of things, one would rub one’s / Eyes, be too faint to respond, much less explain.” This grotesque vision of “creepy baby angel heads” with “pitch-black” wings conjures a distorted version of religious iconography, as if innocence and divine presence have been twisted into something unnatural. The phrase “clustering at the sum of things” implies an apocalyptic or revelatory moment, a point of culmination that is overwhelming and beyond explanation.

The poem then shifts back to grounded, yet equally desolate, imagery: “It looked the way a fence looks just after the last / Stampede. A big old blood-colored barn collapsed in / Its tracks.” The comparison to a post-stampede fence suggests exhaustion, the aftermath of chaos. The “blood-colored barn” collapsing in its tracks reinforces the sense of irreversible destruction, as if something foundational has given way.

Following this collapse, we get the eerie exposure of surveillance: “Out of hiding came all the hidden cameras.” This moment implies that, after the disaster, something unseen has been recording or monitoring all along. It introduces a sudden awareness of being watched, perhaps suggesting that even in disarray, there is a system observing, waiting to document or capitalize on failure.

Wier continues her meditation on aftermath and detritus: “It looked like streets look after a parade’s disbanded.” This comparison to post-parade streets suggests both emptiness and the remnants of a spectacle that once seemed grand but is now reduced to scattered debris. What remains is not celebration but absence.

In the closing lines, Wier reaffirms the emotional chaos that has been personified throughout: “It was the kind of day in which emotions roaming from / Town to town, free to be themselves, enjoyed their / Rich fantasy lives.” Emotions are not grounded but transient, aimless wanderers that exist in a state of constant flux. This restlessness reflects the overall instability of the poem, where meaning, passion, and even syntax seem to have lost their foundations.

Finally, the last line brings the title into full resonance: “We were rags in the hands of a narcoleptic duster.” The speaker and their companions—perhaps all of humanity—are reduced to “rags,” mere scraps being half-heartedly moved about by a force that lacks full consciousness. A “narcoleptic duster” suggests an entity that intermittently wakes to perform its task but is ultimately ineffective, unable to truly clear away the dust. This final image encapsulates the entire poem’s meditation on fragmentation, exhaustion, and futility.

"Attitude of Rags" is a poem about disintegration—of meaning, passion, and coherence. Wier crafts a world where language itself is in crisis, where words are homeless and syntax is elusive. This disorder extends to the emotional realm, where feelings are “scattered” and passion is “taking a beating.” The surreal imagery of “creepy baby angel heads” and “hidden cameras” introduces an unsettling quality, as if the world has lost its ability to sustain a stable, rational order.

Yet, despite the poem’s melancholic tone, there is a sly awareness of its own absurdity. The comparison to a “narcoleptic duster” suggests that even in this state of loss, there is something comically pathetic about the way life stumbles forward. The poem does not end with resolution but with an acknowledgment of our ragged condition, our place in a universe that moves us haphazardly, without clear intent or design.

Ultimately, Wier’s poem captures the attitude of rags—a state of being worn, discarded, yet still present. It is an elegy for coherence but also a recognition of the strange, surreal beauty in what remains.

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