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The Government Lake: Last Poems
The stunning, startling collection that is also the last work from a major poet A woman named Mildred starts laying eggs after feathers from wild poultry begin coming down the chimney. A man becomes friends with a bank robber who abducts him and eventually rues his captor’s death. A baby is born transparent.James Tate’s work, filled with unexpected turns and deadpan exaggeration, “fanciful and grave, mundane and transcendent,” (New York Times) has been among the most defining and significant of our time. In his last collection before his death in 2015, Tate’s dark yet whimsical humor, his emotional acuity, and his keen ear for the absurd are on full display in prose poems that finely constructed and lyrical, surrealistic and provocative.With The Government Lake, James Tate reminds us why he is one of the great poets of our age and one of the true masters of the form.
- GenresPoetryShort Stories
96 pages, Kindle Edition
Published July 2, 2019
29 people are currently reading
329 people want to read
About the author
James Tate
176 books129 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.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 62 reviews
June 30, 2022
I bought this at Prairie Lights Books in Iowa City earlier this summer, part of a project of exploring prose poems that started with last summer's purchase of Charles Simic's The World Doesn't End at Powell's Books in Portland. I liked "The Phone Call", "The Liar", and "Too Late", which share the deadpan surrealism of the whole collection, but close with a humorous twist. If you're intrigued, you can watch a variety of people read some of these poems here: https://www.jamestate.net/the-governm....
July 23, 2019
I was only introduced to James Tate in this posthumous collection of prose poems. Each one seems to have a silly twist or a wry comment, with a bunch of animals in there too. I couldn't help but read them with a Jack Handy voice in my head (but if you go find the poet in YouTube I'm not that far off.)
I received a copy from the publisher through Edelweiss. This came out July 2, 2019.
I received a copy from the publisher through Edelweiss. This came out July 2, 2019.
July 5, 2019
The Devil
I was digging through some papers in my desk drawer
when I came across a ceramic figure that seemed quite old.
It was a devil of some sort, possibly Aztec. I don’t remember
where I got it. Maybe it was a gift. Anyway, I took it out
and put it up on the shelf in the living room. I liked it
there. When my girlfriend, Cecilia, came over a couple of
nights later, she spotted it immediately. “That’s mine,”
she said. “Well, what am I doing with it?” I said. “You
stole it,” she said. “Why would I steal it?” I said. “You
liked it and wanted it for your own,” she said. “I just
found it in the back of my desk drawer,” I said. “You were
hiding it from me,” she said. “I told you, I don’t know how
it got there,” I said. “Well, I want it back,” she said.
“Fine, take it, it’s yours,” I said. “I will, thank you,”
she said. So she took it back and placed it on her mantel
and we didn’t mention it for some time. Then one day when she’s
over at my place she says, “What are you doing with my devil?”
I said, “What devil?” She said, “The one right there,” pointing
to it on my desk. “I swear I don’t know. I didn’t take it,”
I said. “Yes you did. Admit it,” she said. “I haven’t seen it
since it was over at your place,” I said. “You’re a liar,”
she said. “No, that’s the truth,” I said. I gave it back
to her and said I didn’t want to see it again. The next time
I was over at her place I quietly looked around. I didn’t
spot the devil anyplace. Finally, I said, “Where’d you put
the devil?” “Oh, I threw it away,” she said. “You what?”
I said. “I threw it away. It was just too much trouble,
I mean, between us,” she said. I was sad, I missed it. I
had grown very fond of it. But I didn’t say anything. When
I got home that night, I looked around. Surely it was some-
place. Finally, I went to bed. In the middle of the night
something woke me. It was the devil, only it was an angel,
and it said, “Get rid of her. She’ll hurt you. She’s a fallen
one.” I reached out to touch him, but he was gone.
I was digging through some papers in my desk drawer
when I came across a ceramic figure that seemed quite old.
It was a devil of some sort, possibly Aztec. I don’t remember
where I got it. Maybe it was a gift. Anyway, I took it out
and put it up on the shelf in the living room. I liked it
there. When my girlfriend, Cecilia, came over a couple of
nights later, she spotted it immediately. “That’s mine,”
she said. “Well, what am I doing with it?” I said. “You
stole it,” she said. “Why would I steal it?” I said. “You
liked it and wanted it for your own,” she said. “I just
found it in the back of my desk drawer,” I said. “You were
hiding it from me,” she said. “I told you, I don’t know how
it got there,” I said. “Well, I want it back,” she said.
“Fine, take it, it’s yours,” I said. “I will, thank you,”
she said. So she took it back and placed it on her mantel
and we didn’t mention it for some time. Then one day when she’s
over at my place she says, “What are you doing with my devil?”
I said, “What devil?” She said, “The one right there,” pointing
to it on my desk. “I swear I don’t know. I didn’t take it,”
I said. “Yes you did. Admit it,” she said. “I haven’t seen it
since it was over at your place,” I said. “You’re a liar,”
she said. “No, that’s the truth,” I said. I gave it back
to her and said I didn’t want to see it again. The next time
I was over at her place I quietly looked around. I didn’t
spot the devil anyplace. Finally, I said, “Where’d you put
the devil?” “Oh, I threw it away,” she said. “You what?”
I said. “I threw it away. It was just too much trouble,
I mean, between us,” she said. I was sad, I missed it. I
had grown very fond of it. But I didn’t say anything. When
I got home that night, I looked around. Surely it was some-
place. Finally, I went to bed. In the middle of the night
something woke me. It was the devil, only it was an angel,
and it said, “Get rid of her. She’ll hurt you. She’s a fallen
one.” I reached out to touch him, but he was gone.
November 10, 2021
They're not flash fiction.
They're not flash fiction, they're poems. Check the cover.
You don't have to like them, but they're poems. They're also Tate's last works, so, lets show some respect.
That's it. The following will be a bad impression so for the casual GR'er, you can stop here and I'll see you next time.
The Bee Keeper
I let them go. I felt bad about taking their honey for my tea. Their wax for my candles. So I let them go. My business partner was unsure of our standing. "Are we going to keep something else?" She said. "I'm not sure. What's an entity that wouldn't mind us taking their labor?" I asked. "Beavers like their dams. Fish like they're eggs. Most things like what they thing." She said. I went home and my wife who runs the pound said that I could take some dogs. "What the hell do dogs produce?" I asked. "Happiness." She said. "Yeah? Then why are they in a pound?" Instead of answering me so took my half eaten dinner and forked it onto her plate. "What do you produce? Not happiness." She said. Well happiness was only kind-of promised in our wedding vows. I went to bed half full and unspooned. I had a dream of a yellow and black matriarch who wanted me to dance my speech. I loved it. I always had a hard time with the tongue. I never cared for words. They always seemed like poor substitutions. But dancing! I loved it. "There are some polleny violets are the vest park." I danced with a Balanchine meter. I woke up and everything in the room was a word. Now when I see bees, I see them as the real humans. That our evolution was a fuck-up accident, and that, the world would be better if it were run by bees. They're at least connected to their bodies. Unlike us mind-down bipeds.
They're not flash fiction, they're poems. Check the cover.
You don't have to like them, but they're poems. They're also Tate's last works, so, lets show some respect.
That's it. The following will be a bad impression so for the casual GR'er, you can stop here and I'll see you next time.
The Bee Keeper
I let them go. I felt bad about taking their honey for my tea. Their wax for my candles. So I let them go. My business partner was unsure of our standing. "Are we going to keep something else?" She said. "I'm not sure. What's an entity that wouldn't mind us taking their labor?" I asked. "Beavers like their dams. Fish like they're eggs. Most things like what they thing." She said. I went home and my wife who runs the pound said that I could take some dogs. "What the hell do dogs produce?" I asked. "Happiness." She said. "Yeah? Then why are they in a pound?" Instead of answering me so took my half eaten dinner and forked it onto her plate. "What do you produce? Not happiness." She said. Well happiness was only kind-of promised in our wedding vows. I went to bed half full and unspooned. I had a dream of a yellow and black matriarch who wanted me to dance my speech. I loved it. I always had a hard time with the tongue. I never cared for words. They always seemed like poor substitutions. But dancing! I loved it. "There are some polleny violets are the vest park." I danced with a Balanchine meter. I woke up and everything in the room was a word. Now when I see bees, I see them as the real humans. That our evolution was a fuck-up accident, and that, the world would be better if it were run by bees. They're at least connected to their bodies. Unlike us mind-down bipeds.
July 24, 2019
These are more like surreal flash fic than standard poems, but I don't care, as I loved every one of them.
Read
July 18, 2022Tate's last !! he persists!! in Tateism !! Gosh what a chap I have a lot of respect for this inimitable imagination & whilst it doesn't stray from that exactly I wouldn't suggest this as an intro to the big man
Read
January 16, 2023Easier going than selected poems. Some pretty funny / touching / both. Some kind of theory about hot dogs and beans.
January 13, 2024
This was fun, I'm James Tate'd out
March 16, 2025
“A policeman stopped me on the street and said he was sorry. He was looking for someone who looked just like me and had the same name. What are the chances?”
wry, absurd, and full of whimsy. another jim tate classic
wry, absurd, and full of whimsy. another jim tate classic
August 30, 2020
The Bathroom
I went to the bookstore and found the poetry section. I enjoyed thumbing through the pages of the books, reading a poem here and there. Then I saw a book that was written by a Pulitzer Prize winner. Naturally, I figured it would be worth reading. So I spent the outrageous amount of money the publishers charge nowadays for a measly 80 pages or so. "Hello," I said to the clerk. "Hi," he said. "Can I interest you in a membership to our lovely bookstore?" "I already have a membership," I said. "Great," he said. Then I sauntered out of the store with my new book. I sat down to read it when my cat suddenly jumped on my lap. "Hi," he said. "Hello," I said. "I'm a blind cat," he said. "I know," I said. So I read the poems aloud. After the second poem, he calmly left the room. I heard him walk down to the basement to his litter box. I waited for him to return but he never came back. So I finished reading the book and found myself talking to my dog. "That was a doozy," I said. "Did you like it?" he said. "I did not," I said. After staring out the window for a few minutes, I became hungry. So I ordered a meal and waited for it to come. As I was waiting, I reread some of the poems and called out to my cat, "Do you want this book?" "No thanks," he said. "Okay," I said. Then the delivery boy arrived. "Can I use your bathroom?" He said. "No," I said. "We're in the middle of a global pandemic and you might have the virus. Hell, I might have the virus. So it's possible either of us could die." "Good point," he said. "Goodbye," I said. I shut the door and placed my food on the kitchen counter. Then I walked to the bathroom and flushed the book down the toilet. The food tasted delicious.
I went to the bookstore and found the poetry section. I enjoyed thumbing through the pages of the books, reading a poem here and there. Then I saw a book that was written by a Pulitzer Prize winner. Naturally, I figured it would be worth reading. So I spent the outrageous amount of money the publishers charge nowadays for a measly 80 pages or so. "Hello," I said to the clerk. "Hi," he said. "Can I interest you in a membership to our lovely bookstore?" "I already have a membership," I said. "Great," he said. Then I sauntered out of the store with my new book. I sat down to read it when my cat suddenly jumped on my lap. "Hi," he said. "Hello," I said. "I'm a blind cat," he said. "I know," I said. So I read the poems aloud. After the second poem, he calmly left the room. I heard him walk down to the basement to his litter box. I waited for him to return but he never came back. So I finished reading the book and found myself talking to my dog. "That was a doozy," I said. "Did you like it?" he said. "I did not," I said. After staring out the window for a few minutes, I became hungry. So I ordered a meal and waited for it to come. As I was waiting, I reread some of the poems and called out to my cat, "Do you want this book?" "No thanks," he said. "Okay," I said. Then the delivery boy arrived. "Can I use your bathroom?" He said. "No," I said. "We're in the middle of a global pandemic and you might have the virus. Hell, I might have the virus. So it's possible either of us could die." "Good point," he said. "Goodbye," I said. I shut the door and placed my food on the kitchen counter. Then I walked to the bathroom and flushed the book down the toilet. The food tasted delicious.
February 15, 2019
I have to disclaimer here because although I get that "prose poetry" is a thing and that the author most likely preferred to call these works "poems," but I think Tate's work would benefit from a re-branding as "flash fiction." It frustrates me that this book (and probably others of Tate's) are overlooked simply because of the general world's fear of poetry.
That's not to say there aren't poetic elements and complexities to these pieces. This isn't a book to pick up and zip through (although in all honesty, I did but mostly because I know I'll reread a lot of these) so it doesn't follow the "rules" we associate with most books. Each work is dense with language, emotion, and images - it's best to read one or two and let them percolate. Four pages - and your head will be full.
Some pieces read like set-ups for jokes and you're ready for the punch line except that the punch line ends up being from some other joke. Most feel like dreams; things start and stop quickly, panic sets in even though you know "this isn't real," unbelievable things are readily accepted as fact. It's really effing fun.
I'm sad that this, Tate's posthumous book, is the first I've read, but I can say with some certainty that I will be seeking out his previous works.
That's not to say there aren't poetic elements and complexities to these pieces. This isn't a book to pick up and zip through (although in all honesty, I did but mostly because I know I'll reread a lot of these) so it doesn't follow the "rules" we associate with most books. Each work is dense with language, emotion, and images - it's best to read one or two and let them percolate. Four pages - and your head will be full.
Some pieces read like set-ups for jokes and you're ready for the punch line except that the punch line ends up being from some other joke. Most feel like dreams; things start and stop quickly, panic sets in even though you know "this isn't real," unbelievable things are readily accepted as fact. It's really effing fun.
I'm sad that this, Tate's posthumous book, is the first I've read, but I can say with some certainty that I will be seeking out his previous works.
November 29, 2019
This is not what I call poetry.
The pages are filled with quirky, flash fiction/short, short stories that a middle-grader could've strung together. I was extremely disappointed, not to mention a bit perturbed that a one-time Pulitzer prize winning poet penned such dribble and, because of his former great works (I'm presuming they were great if he won a Pulitzer. I don't really know as I haven't read his other books) was cleared for publication. Meanwhile, other talented poet's get turned down...
For shame, literati! For shame!
Because I am a nobody in the poetry industry, I wouldn't dream of vomiting this stuff into a page and sending it in for publication. Except maybe as a joke.
Did NOT finish on purpose.
The pages are filled with quirky, flash fiction/short, short stories that a middle-grader could've strung together. I was extremely disappointed, not to mention a bit perturbed that a one-time Pulitzer prize winning poet penned such dribble and, because of his former great works (I'm presuming they were great if he won a Pulitzer. I don't really know as I haven't read his other books) was cleared for publication. Meanwhile, other talented poet's get turned down...
For shame, literati! For shame!
Because I am a nobody in the poetry industry, I wouldn't dream of vomiting this stuff into a page and sending it in for publication. Except maybe as a joke.
Did NOT finish on purpose.
September 24, 2022
"A trout bit me when I was washing the dishes. But I couldn’t catch him. I flew over my hometown and didn’t recognize anyone. That’s how long it’s been. A policeman stopped me on the street and said he was sorry. He was looking for someone who looked just like me. What are the chances?"
June 10, 2022
This is James Tate’s final book and it feels like he knew it. It feels like Tate emptied his notes app into this one. A lot of the poems read like fables but without any explicit “AHA” moment for the characters like they were just an inch away from putting everything together but ran out of time (which is especially sobering considering James Tate died before the collection could be published). Every sentence is so blunt and short as if Tate is record keeping but the poems themselves are so wonderfully absurd and expansive and refuse the explain themselves and I love them for it. And who could resist a big red book with a chicken on it? Given the circumstances surrounding this final collection, the poem “I Sat at My Desk and Contemplated All That I Had Accomplished” was a heartbreaking but beautiful end for this book at the end of James Tate’s life. This book reminds me a lot of “Wild Milk” by Sabrina Orah Mark.
May 18, 2021
And now, a rant:
If you don't "get" Tate's work, or if you want to gripe and moan that it's not to your taste, *and* if you freely admit that you didn't even finish reading this book, may I suggest that, instead of writing a sniping review, you ask some questions instead that might help you to better understand or even appreciate what he was doing so masterfully for so many years?
I've always believed there is room at the Poetry Table for everyone. Except whiners. No one wants to sit next to a whiner. Do the work.
If you don't "get" Tate's work, or if you want to gripe and moan that it's not to your taste, *and* if you freely admit that you didn't even finish reading this book, may I suggest that, instead of writing a sniping review, you ask some questions instead that might help you to better understand or even appreciate what he was doing so masterfully for so many years?
I've always believed there is room at the Poetry Table for everyone. Except whiners. No one wants to sit next to a whiner. Do the work.
April 22, 2022
Great book
November 23, 2019
If you enjoy whimsy (and some subtle messaging), you'll likely love these brief, wonderfully quirky, often surrealistic narrative poems as much I did. Tate's brain was one of a kind.
December 25, 2019
I loved some of the poems, dearly loved others (maybe less than ten), cried at a couple. And the ones I hated, I REALLY hated.
January 8, 2020
These 40 some odd brief prose poems read like a set of magical, amoral, or moral Aesop fables as if rewritten by Jorge Luis Borges. The line between normal reality or something else or creatures that are living and creatures that appear not is a dashed line. The book was published 4 years after James Tate died. It seems apocryphal but the introduction says the last poem was found sitting in his typewriter, just waiting. The first line of that prose poem -narrated by a character - is "I sat at my desk and contemplated all that I had accomplished..." which could sound like the fable of James Tate at the end of his life and unclear whether he had died or not as some of the others in this very interesting book and his ghost come back to type the page.
[I think I see others here discard the term prose poem and call these "flash fiction" - I dunno.]
[I think I see others here discard the term prose poem and call these "flash fiction" - I dunno.]
December 12, 2024
took a while to get behind this quick and abstract way of writing but like 3/4 thru I was jiving. I can see how this book inspired David Berman's own work
standouts: "second childhood" + "the agronaut"
standouts: "second childhood" + "the agronaut"
February 19, 2021
The kookiest kook in all of poetry. But he had a precision knife. These were the final poems published in his lifetime. A master.
October 18, 2024
Incredible. Very funny, very sad, very happy. Accountants, policemen, sheep farmers, and shopping mall architects move through a world where strange occurrences wait around every corner. Raccoons, camels, and dogs appear as messengers or gifts from God. In the end one walks away feeling like they have unexpectedly learned something or encountered a human approximation of a parable or at least a very funny joke you can't quite put your finger on.
July 8, 2019
"A three-hour class on what is a prose poem is? A waste of time. That doesn’t mean it can’t be prose, or that prose can’t be poetry—but for all practical, speaking purposes, it’s right-flush margin or it’s lineated. It’s so simple." —Mary Ruefle
http://www.washingtonsquarereview.com...
http://www.washingtonsquarereview.com...
September 17, 2019
Imagine if Raymond Carver had written flash-fiction. Imagine him dusted with magical realism and characters off on tangents and it's all suffused with the absurd soberness of dream-logic. That's what James Tate's poetry feels like to me. I'm interested in going back through his work and seeing how he evolved as a poet.
dnf
May 7, 2019Nope. These are flash fiction, not poems. I read quite a few, and didn't really care for them (or all the dead animals).
July 7, 2019
So Ocean Vuong and James Tate both published books in June, 2019. How were they connected? Both taught (Vuong still teaches, Tate died in 2015) at the University of Massachusetts (Amherst) creative writing program. Both lived in Northamptom, MA, a stone's throw from the home of Amherst's, and America's, and arguably the world's, greatest poet, Emily Dickinson.
Other than that, Tate and Vuong could not be more different. Vuong writes prose that almost begs to be read as poetry. In some chapters he breaks each line up with double spacing to make it look like lines of a poem. Tate wrote poetry that reads, at first glance, like the sparest, most minimal prose, often resembling instruction manuals for some product that doesn't need an instruction manual, like a toaster or a watch. It's only after getting into Tate's work, after letting it take over your consciousness, that you realize how poetic it is, how it strips away all the tropes that advertise "This is Poetry" and gives you the essential mystery of lives that seem, and sometimes are, terminally dull, yet whose every moment resonates with ambiguity and tension.
Tate's poems often read like flash fiction written by a writer afflicted with dementia who tries to counter his disability by writing in flat declarative sentences about whatever happened to him, but who nonetheless cannot avoid going off the rails halfway or two-thirds through the story. In that way, he resembles the most unlikely character, Vuong's schizophrenic storyteller grandmother Lan in On Earth We Are Briefly Gorgeous. I wonder if Tate and Vuong ever sat in the faculty lounge at UMass and discussed their work over sandwiches they got from the vending maachine, or did Vuong got their to late to get to know the senior poet?
It's impossible to give the flavor of Tate's bizarrely appealing everyday surrealism without quoting him in full. Here, then, is the complete text of "Married to the Wrong Man." (I trust I'm not violating any copywright laws by quoting it in this review.):
I said I was very sorry for all the trouble I had caused her. She said it was no trouble at all. I offered her a drink. She said a drink would be nice. We sat down on the sofa. I asked her her name again. She said, "Matilda, just like in the song." I said, "I've never known a Matilda. That's a great name." "My mother always wanted to go to Australia, but naming me Matilda was as close as she got," she said. "Why did you save me back there," I said. "You looked like a good man," she said. "Thank you. I just got my hair cut," I said. She laughed. "I think I'd like you even without a haircut," she said. "That's very generous of you," I said. " "I just speak the truth," she said. "Always?" I said. "No, just when I feel like it," she said. "Oh, then I'll be careful," I said. "You don't have to," she said. "Why?" I said. "I told you, I like you," she said. So I kissed her. And I kisssed her some more. I kissed her until we were both dizzy. "That was great," I said. "Don't stop," she said. Then I took her to bed. We made love most of the night, and it was joyous. When we woke in the morning there was a thunderstorm. She said, "I have to go." I said, "Why? Wait until the storm is over." She said, "I can't. I'm married." "Oh," I said, "that makes a difference." "I'm sorry," she said. "I should have told you." "I guess it wouldn't have happened then," I said. "Probably not," she said. She reached in her purse and pulled out a revolver. "And now I have to kill you. I'm sorry," she said. "I won't tell anyone what happened, I promise," I said. "It's not that. It's that if you're here I'll want to sleep with you again. I really like you and I can't risk that," she said. "Why don't you leave your husband?" I said. "I can't. We married for life, and besides, he's immortal," she said. "He's what?" I said. "He's immortal. I know, I've tried to poison him three times and I shot him through the heart twice. It doesn't bother him," she said. "Also, he's terribly jealous and has a bad temper." "That's a shame, it really is, but you don't have to kill me. We can tell him we're just friends," I said. "But he knows when I lie to him," she said. "Okay, shoot me," I said. She aimed the pistol at my head, and then said, "I can't do it." "Why not?" I said. "Because I don't have any bullets," she said.
So goes another day in the life of the persona James Tate assumes thoughout these poems. Things happen that can't happen, yet he never shows any emotion, just takes everything in stride. Things like dogs who die and keep coming back to life, children who fall out of treehouses and bounce back up, mothers who live in heaven and tell him how boring it is when he calls them. The overeall effect is to make the reader feel that this world is entirely real and totally made up at the same time, that both the real and the surreal can exist simultaneously and balance one another. That is, after all, what storytelling and the cryptic branch of it called poetry are about. James Tate knew that, and left us with a priceless legacy that causes us to view our lives in ways we'd never quite have imagined before we read him.
Other than that, Tate and Vuong could not be more different. Vuong writes prose that almost begs to be read as poetry. In some chapters he breaks each line up with double spacing to make it look like lines of a poem. Tate wrote poetry that reads, at first glance, like the sparest, most minimal prose, often resembling instruction manuals for some product that doesn't need an instruction manual, like a toaster or a watch. It's only after getting into Tate's work, after letting it take over your consciousness, that you realize how poetic it is, how it strips away all the tropes that advertise "This is Poetry" and gives you the essential mystery of lives that seem, and sometimes are, terminally dull, yet whose every moment resonates with ambiguity and tension.
Tate's poems often read like flash fiction written by a writer afflicted with dementia who tries to counter his disability by writing in flat declarative sentences about whatever happened to him, but who nonetheless cannot avoid going off the rails halfway or two-thirds through the story. In that way, he resembles the most unlikely character, Vuong's schizophrenic storyteller grandmother Lan in On Earth We Are Briefly Gorgeous. I wonder if Tate and Vuong ever sat in the faculty lounge at UMass and discussed their work over sandwiches they got from the vending maachine, or did Vuong got their to late to get to know the senior poet?
It's impossible to give the flavor of Tate's bizarrely appealing everyday surrealism without quoting him in full. Here, then, is the complete text of "Married to the Wrong Man." (I trust I'm not violating any copywright laws by quoting it in this review.):
I said I was very sorry for all the trouble I had caused her. She said it was no trouble at all. I offered her a drink. She said a drink would be nice. We sat down on the sofa. I asked her her name again. She said, "Matilda, just like in the song." I said, "I've never known a Matilda. That's a great name." "My mother always wanted to go to Australia, but naming me Matilda was as close as she got," she said. "Why did you save me back there," I said. "You looked like a good man," she said. "Thank you. I just got my hair cut," I said. She laughed. "I think I'd like you even without a haircut," she said. "That's very generous of you," I said. " "I just speak the truth," she said. "Always?" I said. "No, just when I feel like it," she said. "Oh, then I'll be careful," I said. "You don't have to," she said. "Why?" I said. "I told you, I like you," she said. So I kissed her. And I kisssed her some more. I kissed her until we were both dizzy. "That was great," I said. "Don't stop," she said. Then I took her to bed. We made love most of the night, and it was joyous. When we woke in the morning there was a thunderstorm. She said, "I have to go." I said, "Why? Wait until the storm is over." She said, "I can't. I'm married." "Oh," I said, "that makes a difference." "I'm sorry," she said. "I should have told you." "I guess it wouldn't have happened then," I said. "Probably not," she said. She reached in her purse and pulled out a revolver. "And now I have to kill you. I'm sorry," she said. "I won't tell anyone what happened, I promise," I said. "It's not that. It's that if you're here I'll want to sleep with you again. I really like you and I can't risk that," she said. "Why don't you leave your husband?" I said. "I can't. We married for life, and besides, he's immortal," she said. "He's what?" I said. "He's immortal. I know, I've tried to poison him three times and I shot him through the heart twice. It doesn't bother him," she said. "Also, he's terribly jealous and has a bad temper." "That's a shame, it really is, but you don't have to kill me. We can tell him we're just friends," I said. "But he knows when I lie to him," she said. "Okay, shoot me," I said. She aimed the pistol at my head, and then said, "I can't do it." "Why not?" I said. "Because I don't have any bullets," she said.
So goes another day in the life of the persona James Tate assumes thoughout these poems. Things happen that can't happen, yet he never shows any emotion, just takes everything in stride. Things like dogs who die and keep coming back to life, children who fall out of treehouses and bounce back up, mothers who live in heaven and tell him how boring it is when he calls them. The overeall effect is to make the reader feel that this world is entirely real and totally made up at the same time, that both the real and the surreal can exist simultaneously and balance one another. That is, after all, what storytelling and the cryptic branch of it called poetry are about. James Tate knew that, and left us with a priceless legacy that causes us to view our lives in ways we'd never quite have imagined before we read him.
October 5, 2022
Delightfully comical, this last collection of poems by James Tate are unusual and fun. They all take the same format - mini narrative poems - and make for a very enjoyable read. After a few you begin to anticipate the surprise twist that you know is coming at the end of each poem
My husband speculated as to what actually makes these poems, rather than short stories. I think that is a very good question and I don’t quite have an answer! On the back of this edition there is a commentary by Matthew Zapruder who writes:"My personal theory is that in his late, narrative poetry, he was stripping away any of the accepted signifiers of free verse poetry, in order to see what remains when all the things that usually tell us we are reading poetryare gone”. I think Zapruder is right. They are still poetry in spirit.
My favourite poems were Double-Trouble, Everything But Thomas, The Phone Call, The Thief, The Argonaut and The Visiting Doctor but almost all of the poems in the book made me snicker in pleasure, gasp in shock or gape in bewilderment! Definitely worth a visit if you enjoy the bizarre!
My husband speculated as to what actually makes these poems, rather than short stories. I think that is a very good question and I don’t quite have an answer! On the back of this edition there is a commentary by Matthew Zapruder who writes:"My personal theory is that in his late, narrative poetry, he was stripping away any of the accepted signifiers of free verse poetry, in order to see what remains when all the things that usually tell us we are reading poetryare gone”. I think Zapruder is right. They are still poetry in spirit.
My favourite poems were Double-Trouble, Everything But Thomas, The Phone Call, The Thief, The Argonaut and The Visiting Doctor but almost all of the poems in the book made me snicker in pleasure, gasp in shock or gape in bewilderment! Definitely worth a visit if you enjoy the bizarre!
May 6, 2020
How did I not know James Tate before? My poetry education was seriously lacking. These are surreal, delightful, funny and profound little stories that go like this:
From Partners:
"I was at work when Jane came into my office and said, "You'll have to do this over again. This draft is a mess. It's full of errors and misquotes. The way you describe the poundage is all wrong and we'd never get it home that way. Really, Craig, I don't know what you were thinking." "I was just trying to get it here as fast as possible, that's all, Jane," I said."
[the bickering continues and reaches a crescendo after which the boss comes out and fires them both for fighting]
"We were stunned. We thought we were working. When we had cleaned out our desks we stood at the door looking at each other. Finally I said, "I love you, Jane." And she said, "I love you, too, Craig." "Would you like to go get a drink with me?" I said. "I can't think of anything I'd rather do," she said."
Many laugh out loud endings served with a touch of profundity.
From Partners:
"I was at work when Jane came into my office and said, "You'll have to do this over again. This draft is a mess. It's full of errors and misquotes. The way you describe the poundage is all wrong and we'd never get it home that way. Really, Craig, I don't know what you were thinking." "I was just trying to get it here as fast as possible, that's all, Jane," I said."
[the bickering continues and reaches a crescendo after which the boss comes out and fires them both for fighting]
"We were stunned. We thought we were working. When we had cleaned out our desks we stood at the door looking at each other. Finally I said, "I love you, Jane." And she said, "I love you, too, Craig." "Would you like to go get a drink with me?" I said. "I can't think of anything I'd rather do," she said."
Many laugh out loud endings served with a touch of profundity.
January 7, 2025
"Last Poems" seemed a somewhat freaky thing to put on the cover, since I thought Tate was alive. Perhaps he was just adding another note of dark humor and surrealism? Then I googled him and found he'd died in 1915. This book was published in 2019.
I like many different things in poetry, including surprise, humor (light or dark), surrealism, fantasy, psychological, even some macabre or horror writing. Even as a child I loved Edgar Allen Poe's stories. I stayed on. These prose poems are fairly short, mostly from just a few lines on page two to one and three-quarters pages. (I prefer shorter poems, too.) He grabbed my interest from page 32 on (more than half the book).
To quote from poems so short might spoil the reading for you. I'll just say that the final poem's title was enough make me cry, since I knew by then he had died. "I sat at my desk and contemplated all that I had accomplished." Leave it to Tate to bring a long list of amusing, surrealistic accolades to his lifetime achievements.
I like many different things in poetry, including surprise, humor (light or dark), surrealism, fantasy, psychological, even some macabre or horror writing. Even as a child I loved Edgar Allen Poe's stories. I stayed on. These prose poems are fairly short, mostly from just a few lines on page two to one and three-quarters pages. (I prefer shorter poems, too.) He grabbed my interest from page 32 on (more than half the book).
To quote from poems so short might spoil the reading for you. I'll just say that the final poem's title was enough make me cry, since I knew by then he had died. "I sat at my desk and contemplated all that I had accomplished." Leave it to Tate to bring a long list of amusing, surrealistic accolades to his lifetime achievements.
May 18, 2020
I'd been underwhelmed by his previous forays into this mode, part prose, part verse only by virtue of the line breaks that shape the material into a single column. There are four books in this mode. The last one, The Ghost Soldiers, seemed to allude to the surveillance culture of the time. Typically in these books the characters are tabula rasas, very middle American, very generic, unextraordinary in their lives or interests. The narratives take unpredictable directions, sometimes in baby-steps, sometimes in thudding leaps. In this last book the narratives are more ominous, intense and focused. And they will make me revisit the previous four books to find what I may have been missing, although I'd preferred the stretch from Constant Defender through Worshipful Company of Fletchers and Shroud of the Gnome.
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