Here's another poem by Armantrout that I've always liked:


So these are the hills of home. Hazy tiers
nearly subliminal. To see them is to see
double, hear bad puns delivered with a wink.
An untoward familiarity.

Rising from my sleep, the road is more
and less the road. Around that bend are pale
houses, pairs of junipers. Then to look
reveals no more.

I can understand a reader feeling "underwhelmed" by this poem, saying "it's nothing special" or "what's so great about it?" There is an emotional coolness or detachment in her poetry that constrasts with the expectation that poetry be impassioned. I would have a harder time with someone who said that the poem was incomprehensible, or beneath serious consideration. It's clearly a poem that's been well-thought out and elaborated with great care on the level of "craft." It's almost Elizabeth Bishop-like in that respect: "until a name / and all its connotations are the same."