What do you think?
Rate this book
Worshipful Company of Fletchers: Joyful New Poems with Variety of Voices by 1992 Pulitzer Winner James Tate
Masterfully drawing on a variety of voices and characters, James Tate joyfully offers his first book since winning the Pulitzer Prize in 1992 for his "Selected Poems."
81 pages, Paperback
First published December 1, 1995
About the author
James Tate
187 books130 followersJames Vincent Tate was born in Kansas City, Missouri. He taught creative writing at the University of California, Berkeley and Columbia University, and at the University of Massachusetts, Amherst, where he worked since 1971. He was a member of the poetry faculty at the MFA Program for Poets & Writers, along with Dara Wier and Peter Gizzi.
Dudley Fitts selected Tate's first book of poems, The Lost Pilot (1967) for the Yale Series of Younger Poets while Tate was still a student at the University of Iowa Writers' Workshop; Fitts praised Tate's writing for its "natural grace." Despite the early praise he received Tate alienated some of his fans in the seventies with a series of poetry collections that grew more and more strange.
He published two books of prose, Dreams of a Robot Dancing Bee (2001) and The Route as Briefed (1999). His awards include a National Institute of Arts and Letters Award, the Wallace Stevens Award, a Pulitzer Prize in poetry, a National Book Award, and fellowships from the Guggenheim Foundation and the National Endowment for the Arts. He was also a Chancellor of the Academy of American Poets.
Tate's writing style is difficult to describe, but has been identified with the postmodernist and neo-surrealist movements. He has been known to play with phrases culled from news items, history, anecdotes, or common speech; later cutting, pasting, and assembling such divergent material into tightly woven compositions that reveal bizarre and surreal insights into the absurdity of human nature.
Dudley Fitts selected Tate's first book of poems, The Lost Pilot (1967) for the Yale Series of Younger Poets while Tate was still a student at the University of Iowa Writers' Workshop; Fitts praised Tate's writing for its "natural grace." Despite the early praise he received Tate alienated some of his fans in the seventies with a series of poetry collections that grew more and more strange.
He published two books of prose, Dreams of a Robot Dancing Bee (2001) and The Route as Briefed (1999). His awards include a National Institute of Arts and Letters Award, the Wallace Stevens Award, a Pulitzer Prize in poetry, a National Book Award, and fellowships from the Guggenheim Foundation and the National Endowment for the Arts. He was also a Chancellor of the Academy of American Poets.
Tate's writing style is difficult to describe, but has been identified with the postmodernist and neo-surrealist movements. He has been known to play with phrases culled from news items, history, anecdotes, or common speech; later cutting, pasting, and assembling such divergent material into tightly woven compositions that reveal bizarre and surreal insights into the absurdity of human nature.
Ratings & Reviews
Friends & Following
Create a free account to discover what your friends think of this book!
Community Reviews
Displaying 1 - 30 of 47 reviews
January 26, 2019
bought this used. The dipshit before me underlined some nice parts and put marginalia in, some examples of: during the poem "An Eland, In Retirement" in response to the underlined couplet - beating drums, and women with/dinner plates in their lips - they wrote in curly cue blue pen, "it's like the poem gets bored partway through and switches to something else".
In other poems there was just a green post-it note that said 'Funny'
or in the case of the last poem, a post-it note that said 'this is a nice way to end the book' as if the post it was written by Lenny from Of Mice and Men, just let me pet the rabbits, George.
Other highlights: during the poem Abandoned Conceptions, there was a post-it that said, "My mother went to heaven and came back disappointed ... Hilarious!"
I also enjoyed the post it that said, "Far away a bell rang and then a shot was fired ... I'm not sure what this signifies"
And: about the poem "From an Island" the post-it read, "Profound, like a wise man's tale."
In other poems there was just a green post-it note that said 'Funny'
or in the case of the last poem, a post-it note that said 'this is a nice way to end the book' as if the post it was written by Lenny from Of Mice and Men, just let me pet the rabbits, George.
Other highlights: during the poem Abandoned Conceptions, there was a post-it that said, "My mother went to heaven and came back disappointed ... Hilarious!"
I also enjoyed the post it that said, "Far away a bell rang and then a shot was fired ... I'm not sure what this signifies"
And: about the poem "From an Island" the post-it read, "Profound, like a wise man's tale."
June 8, 2018
Fuck yeah!
I read a lot of contemporary poetry, (read? Make time!) and I found this Tate guy one of the strangest and uniquest bards I’ve glanced thus far. (Sure, this book won a National Book Award, but don’t let that dissuade you) To sum with brevity: (And close your eyes if you find author-similes a crutch like I do ((I just can’t help myself))) they’re like Barthelme holograms.
They’re just strings of words too. The things good poets do: remarkable.
I read a lot of contemporary poetry, (read? Make time!) and I found this Tate guy one of the strangest and uniquest bards I’ve glanced thus far. (Sure, this book won a National Book Award, but don’t let that dissuade you) To sum with brevity: (And close your eyes if you find author-similes a crutch like I do ((I just can’t help myself))) they’re like Barthelme holograms.
They’re just strings of words too. The things good poets do: remarkable.
September 11, 2026
Any poodle under ten inches high is a toy.
Almost always a toy is an imitation
of something grown-ups use.
Popes with unclipped hair are called "corded popes."
If a Pope's hair is allowed to grow unchecked,
it becomes extremely long and twists
into long strands that look like ropes.
When it is shorter it is tightly curled.
Popes are very intelligent.
There are three different sizes.
The largest are called standard Popes.
The medium-sized ones are called miniature Popes.
I could go on like this, I could say:
"He is a squarely built Pope, neat,
well-proportioned, with an alert stance
and an expression of bright curiosity,"
but I won't. After a poodle dies
all the cardinals flock to the nearest 7-Eleven.
They drink Slurpies until one of them throws up
and then he's the new Pope.
He is then fully armed and rides through the wilderness alone,
day and night in all kinds of weather.
The new Pope chooses the name he will use as Pope,
like "Wild Bill" or "Buffalo Bill."
He wears red shoes with a cross embroidered on the front.
Most Popes are called "Babe" because
growing up to become a Pope is a lot of fun.
All the time their bodies are becoming bigger and stranger,
but sometimes things happen to make them unhappy.
They have to go to the bathroom by themselves,
and they spend almost all of their time sleeping.
Parents seem incapable of helping their little popes grow up.
Fathers tell them over and over again not to lean out of windows,
but the sky is full of them.
It looks as if they are just taking it easy,
but they are learning something else.
What, we don't know, because we are not like them.
We can't even dress like them.
We are like red bugs or mites compared to them.
We think we are having a good time cutting cartoons out of the paper,
but really we are eating crumbs out of their hands.
We are tiny germs that cannot be seen under microscopes.
When a Pope is ready to come into the world,
we try to sing a song, but the words do not fit the music too well.
Some of the full-bodied popes are a million times bigger than us.
They open their mouths at regular intervals.
They are continually grinding up pieces of the cross
and spitting them out. Black flies cling to their lips.
Once they are elected they are given a bowl of cream
and a puppy clip. Eyebrows are a protection
when the Pope must plunge through dense underbrush
Before the break-up of my country
I was content to lie under the kitchen sink
and gnaw on busted pipes.
There was a nest of mice
with whom I could exchange recipes.
When the military planes flew
too low over my house
I would stagger out in to the yard
and sprinkle Tabasco sauce
on their dreamy vapor trails.
My head was full of larks
lost in a sing-along.
A Snake person walked out of the forest
and just stared at me.
“O Snake man," I said,
‘‘have you seen my little brother?"
“My name," he finally replied,
“is Mr. Ashby. Please address me
by that name or I will embarrass you
by telling you a beautiful story."
"You'll always be Snake man to me,
inclined though you may be
to tell beautiful stories
behind the guise of a pseudonym,
because that’s your nature .
You are a wily apparition, no doubt,
conjured by my own crumbling defenses."
Mr. Ashby cleared his throat and smiled:
“Baby’s tears began to flow
from baby’s blue eyes.
The baby’s slippers
were starting to walk on their own.
It was a false baby
with false baby’s breath...."
“That would be my brother , ” I sighed.
“O thank you, thank you, thank you."
Satellites document a shift
in an ant colony. A spy joins
a circus - a clown leaps from
a bridge. A prima ballerina
loses consciousness after sharing
a recreational drug called Ecstasy
with a steeplejack. Both dream
of snakes but the snakes swallow
each other and there is not a trace
of all this. I am in my bath,
it's a Monday, I am almost asleep
listening to the news - a mudslide
has erased a small country.
The world, that mudslide, was
moving away from me. I felt
as if I were on one of those
level airport escalators, too late
to walk. And the world was
incredibly beautiful (w/o me).
An afterthought to my dream,
my dream of swans, six or seven
of them, about to slide over
an immense waterfall. I have won
a trip to Hawaii for two.
Was she a Sister of Mercy, or
A Sister of the Damned?
All the shoppers in aisle three
are sexually starved simultaneously.
All but one prefers a speeded-up
life, a life that can be discounted
with the presentation of coupons.
So early in the morning and already
A child has left home and fallen asleep
on her pink valise beneath a tulip tree.
Almost always a toy is an imitation
of something grown-ups use.
Popes with unclipped hair are called "corded popes."
If a Pope's hair is allowed to grow unchecked,
it becomes extremely long and twists
into long strands that look like ropes.
When it is shorter it is tightly curled.
Popes are very intelligent.
There are three different sizes.
The largest are called standard Popes.
The medium-sized ones are called miniature Popes.
I could go on like this, I could say:
"He is a squarely built Pope, neat,
well-proportioned, with an alert stance
and an expression of bright curiosity,"
but I won't. After a poodle dies
all the cardinals flock to the nearest 7-Eleven.
They drink Slurpies until one of them throws up
and then he's the new Pope.
He is then fully armed and rides through the wilderness alone,
day and night in all kinds of weather.
The new Pope chooses the name he will use as Pope,
like "Wild Bill" or "Buffalo Bill."
He wears red shoes with a cross embroidered on the front.
Most Popes are called "Babe" because
growing up to become a Pope is a lot of fun.
All the time their bodies are becoming bigger and stranger,
but sometimes things happen to make them unhappy.
They have to go to the bathroom by themselves,
and they spend almost all of their time sleeping.
Parents seem incapable of helping their little popes grow up.
Fathers tell them over and over again not to lean out of windows,
but the sky is full of them.
It looks as if they are just taking it easy,
but they are learning something else.
What, we don't know, because we are not like them.
We can't even dress like them.
We are like red bugs or mites compared to them.
We think we are having a good time cutting cartoons out of the paper,
but really we are eating crumbs out of their hands.
We are tiny germs that cannot be seen under microscopes.
When a Pope is ready to come into the world,
we try to sing a song, but the words do not fit the music too well.
Some of the full-bodied popes are a million times bigger than us.
They open their mouths at regular intervals.
They are continually grinding up pieces of the cross
and spitting them out. Black flies cling to their lips.
Once they are elected they are given a bowl of cream
and a puppy clip. Eyebrows are a protection
when the Pope must plunge through dense underbrush
- How The Pope Is Chosen, pg. 28-29
Before the break-up of my country
I was content to lie under the kitchen sink
and gnaw on busted pipes.
There was a nest of mice
with whom I could exchange recipes.
When the military planes flew
too low over my house
I would stagger out in to the yard
and sprinkle Tabasco sauce
on their dreamy vapor trails.
My head was full of larks
lost in a sing-along.
A Snake person walked out of the forest
and just stared at me.
“O Snake man," I said,
‘‘have you seen my little brother?"
“My name," he finally replied,
“is Mr. Ashby. Please address me
by that name or I will embarrass you
by telling you a beautiful story."
"You'll always be Snake man to me,
inclined though you may be
to tell beautiful stories
behind the guise of a pseudonym,
because that’s your nature .
You are a wily apparition, no doubt,
conjured by my own crumbling defenses."
Mr. Ashby cleared his throat and smiled:
“Baby’s tears began to flow
from baby’s blue eyes.
The baby’s slippers
were starting to walk on their own.
It was a false baby
with false baby’s breath...."
“That would be my brother , ” I sighed.
“O thank you, thank you, thank you."
- The Nitrogen Cycle, pg. 36-37
Satellites document a shift
in an ant colony. A spy joins
a circus - a clown leaps from
a bridge. A prima ballerina
loses consciousness after sharing
a recreational drug called Ecstasy
with a steeplejack. Both dream
of snakes but the snakes swallow
each other and there is not a trace
of all this. I am in my bath,
it's a Monday, I am almost asleep
listening to the news - a mudslide
has erased a small country.
The world, that mudslide, was
moving away from me. I felt
as if I were on one of those
level airport escalators, too late
to walk. And the world was
incredibly beautiful (w/o me).
An afterthought to my dream,
my dream of swans, six or seven
of them, about to slide over
an immense waterfall. I have won
a trip to Hawaii for two.
Was she a Sister of Mercy, or
A Sister of the Damned?
All the shoppers in aisle three
are sexually starved simultaneously.
All but one prefers a speeded-up
life, a life that can be discounted
with the presentation of coupons.
So early in the morning and already
A child has left home and fallen asleep
on her pink valise beneath a tulip tree.
- The Morning News, pg. 70-71
February 17, 2013
James Tate is one of my favorite modern poets. His poems are sometimes obscure and bizarre, and his wordplay and sense of humor make every volume an entertaining read. The best of his poems, images, and ideas remind me of some of my favorite Dylan lyrics. My favorite in this volume is 'How the Pope is Chosen', very funny and wins a bonus 1/2 point for timeliness. 4.5
June 6, 2008
After a poodle dies
all the cardinals flock to the nearest 7-Eleven.
They drink Slurpies until one of them throws up
and the he's the new Pope.
-"How The Pope Is Chosen"
"Head Of a White Woman Winking" is the poem I've always wanted to write, damnit.
all the cardinals flock to the nearest 7-Eleven.
They drink Slurpies until one of them throws up
and the he's the new Pope.
-"How The Pope Is Chosen"
"Head Of a White Woman Winking" is the poem I've always wanted to write, damnit.
July 25, 2017
Luminous creature.
December 13, 2017
WHAT A BOOK
July 10, 2018
I can’t say I understood anything that was going on, but it was a fun romp.
Favorites
“How the Pope Is Chosen” (of popes and poodles)
“Porch Theory”
“Worshipful Company of Fletchers”
“Happy as the Day Is Long”
Favorites
“How the Pope Is Chosen” (of popes and poodles)
“Porch Theory”
“Worshipful Company of Fletchers”
“Happy as the Day Is Long”
“Porch Theory”
Lots of wicker and baskets, a Victorian
birdcage, on rainy nights children sleeping
but not really sleeping under quilts
telling ghost stories. The porch sags.
The children grow into surprising adults.
There’s a dinner party, an uncle falls asleep.
The cushions on the wicker couch need mending.
The willow itself is finally dying, having
strangled everything within its great reach
for half-a-century. “Look at those clouds,”
someone says. “The face of God is in there,
somewhere.” A cat watches a cricket caught
in a cobweb. Drinks are served. More children
climb on the wicker couch, and grandmother
stares at the croquet set
in the corner, remembering the parrot
her grandfather brought back from the Pacific.
April 28, 2020
I first came across James Tate's poems in an anthology of American prose poetry. I was struck by his whimsical down-to-earth style and content. It struck a chord with me, and I've been fascinated by his works ever since. Until I came across "Fletchers", though, most of his works I've read have been quite true to the prose-poem format. In many ways "Fletchers" seems to be much closer to the "true" poetry, albeit of the very modern late-20th century kind. This is not a bad thing - in fact, it is a very exciting "new" facet of his style, and makes me feel almost like discovering a new poet. The poems are exploratory and pensive, and open up new vistas to Tate's imagination. They give us a new taste of the world that we live in, and an entirely different perspective on our daily lives.
November 1, 2025
In these poems, Tate wrestles with what it means to be human, the physical vs the metaphysical, what is our purpose in this life, nature vs society, contentment, to live vs to consume, etc. Beautiful poems that often tend towards absurdism while always maintaining deep meaning and asking philosophical questions.
February 12, 2026
This was lovely, and I feel silly for letting it sit on my shelf for half a year before finishing it (sorry Simone)
February 11, 2025
The weakest of his books I've read, though I liked some at the end. "Color in the Garden" was a stand out. The last poem ended the book well, a vibe of appreciation for getting to lead a life of writing these crazy poems.
March 3, 2008
This is the first Tate book I have ever read. I had some passing familiarity with him via anthologies and such. I came across a used copy of this book while Laurie Capps and I were perusing the poetry section at a used book store in Charlotte. She recommended it highly and since I think highly of her I didn't hesitate to buy it.
Judging from this one book alone, when Tate is on he's really on. Poems like "Happy As the Day is Long" and "50 Views of Tokyo" are wonderful conglomerations of seemingly random associations that fit together beautifully as a whole. He also has an amazing poem that compares the pope to a poodle ("How the Pope Is Chosen") that manages to be both hilarious and yet still maintain an astute critique of religion.
In the majority of the poems in this book, however, I felt as if Tate was trying too hard to be clever or, at the very least, letting the cleverness that comes so easily carry his work. Things happen in his poems that couldn't happen in real life. This is not, by itself, a problem, but instead of establishing a world in which such things are believable, it feels more like he said to himself, "Hey, wouldn't it be weird if"... a woman walked a bumble bee the size of a Saint Bernard on a leash? An island turned out to be the Dowager Empress of China? A glowworm drove a car? And yeah, it would be weird. It could also be really cool. But something about these situations rings false. Lines like "A cockroach was talking to a hula-goddess / and nibbling on her lace bodice" and "A spy joins / a circus--a clown leaps from / a bridge" feel like shenanigans. Like how a movie worth seeing is never promoted as "a wild romp" or "zany."
But hey, it won the National Book Award in 1994, so clearly plenty of people disagree with me. I'm certainly not sorry I read it and have marked poems worth revisiting with blue Post-It tabs. Eight, to be exact, which is more good poems than many poets ever write.
Judging from this one book alone, when Tate is on he's really on. Poems like "Happy As the Day is Long" and "50 Views of Tokyo" are wonderful conglomerations of seemingly random associations that fit together beautifully as a whole. He also has an amazing poem that compares the pope to a poodle ("How the Pope Is Chosen") that manages to be both hilarious and yet still maintain an astute critique of religion.
In the majority of the poems in this book, however, I felt as if Tate was trying too hard to be clever or, at the very least, letting the cleverness that comes so easily carry his work. Things happen in his poems that couldn't happen in real life. This is not, by itself, a problem, but instead of establishing a world in which such things are believable, it feels more like he said to himself, "Hey, wouldn't it be weird if"... a woman walked a bumble bee the size of a Saint Bernard on a leash? An island turned out to be the Dowager Empress of China? A glowworm drove a car? And yeah, it would be weird. It could also be really cool. But something about these situations rings false. Lines like "A cockroach was talking to a hula-goddess / and nibbling on her lace bodice" and "A spy joins / a circus--a clown leaps from / a bridge" feel like shenanigans. Like how a movie worth seeing is never promoted as "a wild romp" or "zany."
But hey, it won the National Book Award in 1994, so clearly plenty of people disagree with me. I'm certainly not sorry I read it and have marked poems worth revisiting with blue Post-It tabs. Eight, to be exact, which is more good poems than many poets ever write.
July 1, 2012
So, I'm going through poets that studied at Iowa. My first experience with Tate. And I like it. I like the surprises, the whimsy and implausibility Tate blends with concrete images to link together the themes in this book: the usual stuff about life, religion, etc., and the never ending discussion about what the hell we're all doing here.
Particularly compelling are "In my Own Backyard," "The Parade and After the Parade," "An Eland, in Retirement" "a New Beginning," and "The Documentary We Were Making."
From How the Pope is Chosen:
When a Pope is ready to come into the world,
we try to sing a song, but the words do not fit the music too well.
Some of the full-bodied popes are a million times bigger than us.
They open their mouths at regular intervals.
They are continually grinding up pieces of the cross
and spitting them out. black flies cling to their lips.
Once they are elected they are given a bowl of cream
and a puppy clip. Eyebrows are a protection
when the Pope must plunge through dense underbrush
in search of a sheep.
Particularly compelling are "In my Own Backyard," "The Parade and After the Parade," "An Eland, in Retirement" "a New Beginning," and "The Documentary We Were Making."
From How the Pope is Chosen:
When a Pope is ready to come into the world,
we try to sing a song, but the words do not fit the music too well.
Some of the full-bodied popes are a million times bigger than us.
They open their mouths at regular intervals.
They are continually grinding up pieces of the cross
and spitting them out. black flies cling to their lips.
Once they are elected they are given a bowl of cream
and a puppy clip. Eyebrows are a protection
when the Pope must plunge through dense underbrush
in search of a sheep.
May 13, 2009
Follow the tinkle of the lead llama's bell.
November 10, 2010
I should come back to this after I'm a little bit more used to reading poetry. A lot of little things I liked, but nothing really grabbed me off the bat.
July 24, 2011
Probably my favorite volume of poetry. Changed the way I look at poetry and writing. and its wicked funny.
February 28, 2025
Some
mysteries are better left alone. Others are dreary, distasteful,
and can disarrange a shadow into a thing of unspeakable beauty.
-- "Go, Youth"
My own humanity has overwhelmed me,
it has nearly defeated me, the me who was
trying to rise up. It -- that is, my own
humanity -- seethed up when I least wanted it.
Following the magnetic forces of other worlds,
the birds fly in all directions,
less bird-like than myself.
-- "The Great Root System"
"After all, it's still America," we said in unison
before blowing out the stars and drifting off
into a deep and unsettling sleep.
-- "A New Beginning"
I grab my throat and wrestle me to the ground.
"There, there," I say, "lighten up ol' boy."
"It's a free country, it's your own backyard."
I listen intently: sky and daisies burlesque each other,
bivouacked between worlds.
-- "In My Own Backyard"
mysteries are better left alone. Others are dreary, distasteful,
and can disarrange a shadow into a thing of unspeakable beauty.
-- "Go, Youth"
My own humanity has overwhelmed me,
it has nearly defeated me, the me who was
trying to rise up. It -- that is, my own
humanity -- seethed up when I least wanted it.
Following the magnetic forces of other worlds,
the birds fly in all directions,
less bird-like than myself.
-- "The Great Root System"
"After all, it's still America," we said in unison
before blowing out the stars and drifting off
into a deep and unsettling sleep.
-- "A New Beginning"
I grab my throat and wrestle me to the ground.
"There, there," I say, "lighten up ol' boy."
"It's a free country, it's your own backyard."
I listen intently: sky and daisies burlesque each other,
bivouacked between worlds.
-- "In My Own Backyard"
December 20, 2022
My first James Tate. Much to like but not my cup of tea. Nonsense can be fun and whimsy always is, "Jabberwocky" for instance, but sustaining through the length of a book seems quite a challenge and, here, didn't work for me. Perhaps this is all that Tate writes. I don't know. The book has clever lines, amazing, bizarre images but I only really liked three poems all the way through.
I'll give you that Tate is clever. That his seeming continuity works in ways that, for me, John Ashbery's work does not. But I am in the minority for both poets it seems. I have sworn off Ashbery but I have more Tate's to read on my shelf.
I'll give you that Tate is clever. That his seeming continuity works in ways that, for me, John Ashbery's work does not. But I am in the minority for both poets it seems. I have sworn off Ashbery but I have more Tate's to read on my shelf.
May 1, 2026
A solid collection, but a number of poems didn't reach me. The ones that struck the truest:
"50 Views of Tokyo"
"How the Pope is Chosen"
"We Go to a Fire"
"Where Were You?"
"The Parade and After the Parade"
"Inspiration"
"Worshipful Company of Fletchers"
Once I sat on the toilet in the lobby
of the wrestling amphitheater for several hours
astonished that this was my life, my only life,
and I had nothing better to do than sit there.
--from "50 Views of Tokyo"
This was the point in the book when I knew I should keep reading to the end.
"50 Views of Tokyo"
"How the Pope is Chosen"
"We Go to a Fire"
"Where Were You?"
"The Parade and After the Parade"
"Inspiration"
"Worshipful Company of Fletchers"
Once I sat on the toilet in the lobby
of the wrestling amphitheater for several hours
astonished that this was my life, my only life,
and I had nothing better to do than sit there.
--from "50 Views of Tokyo"
This was the point in the book when I knew I should keep reading to the end.
September 13, 2019
Quite different from his debut, his surreal, hop-skipping, almost psychedelic prose-poem style now fully developed. There are plenty of poems here where it doesn't particularly land all that well, but even they are fun and odd in the right ways. And when he really hits it right, it's out of the park. I have little patience for poetry that forces the surreal, the open-ended symbolism, the quirky opaque, but it all feels so incredibly natural in Tate.
May 22, 2017
These poems made me think of plates with odd pairings of buffet food on them. I couldn't make any sense of how it all got there, or what the chef was doing.
There were about four poems here that I enjoyed: "Eland..", and "Pope..." among them.
There were about four poems here that I enjoyed: "Eland..", and "Pope..." among them.
April 29, 2025
Tate’s poems are dense, strange, absurd, and often delightful— I can’t always explain their logic but nearly every one of them has at least one image or turn of phrase that makes me laugh. A fun and bewildering read.
May 13, 2018
tate is a funny guy. I liked the poem about the governmental prairie dog cull
February 17, 2021
Hard to rate poetry books. I don't expect to like all of them. Relaxing read.
August 17, 2022
Good book.
June 28, 2024
There's no one like him for the poetry of surrealism and enigma. The title poem here is a masterpiece.
June 23, 2025
One of my favorites. Every time I read it, I’m reminded of why I love poetry.
August 7, 2025
annotated this with post-its and it was very enriching for my brain
James Tate,, what a lovely way you have about yourself!!!! sweet poems
nothing suuuper stuck with me but I'll be coming back
James Tate,, what a lovely way you have about yourself!!!! sweet poems
nothing suuuper stuck with me but I'll be coming back
April 4, 2026
Slouching to Gomorrah with a feigned indifference
Displaying 1 - 30 of 47 reviews