James Tate, 1943-2015
July 9, 2015 8:23 AM Subscribe
We lost the incomparable poet James Tate yesterday.
Tate leaves behind a long bibliography of poems and prose. He was a distinguished professor in the Department of English at UMass-Amherst.
John Asbury wrote of "the broad appeal of his wonderfully eccentric and generous poetry" in a citation marking Tate as the winner of the second Wallace Stevens Award
Although he received many prestigious awards for his work in his lifetime, “To say that his absurdist, paratactic poems are out of place in the conservative world of big press, big prize poetry is something of an understatement.”
Tate once said of his own process: "I like starting with a man sitting on a bench with nothing going on ... I like to start with the ordinary, and then nudge it, and then think, What happens next, what happens next? And it gets out of control, until in the end he is practically a person he never dreamed of being."
James Tate was 71.
...
Here's James Tate reading some poems.
Tate leaves behind a long bibliography of poems and prose. He was a distinguished professor in the Department of English at UMass-Amherst.
John Asbury wrote of "the broad appeal of his wonderfully eccentric and generous poetry" in a citation marking Tate as the winner of the second Wallace Stevens Award
Although he received many prestigious awards for his work in his lifetime, “To say that his absurdist, paratactic poems are out of place in the conservative world of big press, big prize poetry is something of an understatement.”
Tate once said of his own process: "I like starting with a man sitting on a bench with nothing going on ... I like to start with the ordinary, and then nudge it, and then think, What happens next, what happens next? And it gets out of control, until in the end he is practically a person he never dreamed of being."
James Tate was 71.
...
Here's James Tate reading some poems.
.
posted by Going To Maine at 8:31 AM on July 9, 2015
posted by Going To Maine at 8:31 AM on July 9, 2015
This is a great loss.
TEACHING THE APE TO WRITE POEMS
They didn’t have much trouble
teaching the ape to write poems:
first they strapped him into the chair,
then tied the pencil around his hand
(the paper had already been nailed down).
Then Dr. Bluespire leaned over his shoulder
and whispered into his ear:
“You look like a god sitting there.
Why don’t you try writing something?”
.
posted by gwint at 8:38 AM on July 9, 2015 [16 favorites]
TEACHING THE APE TO WRITE POEMS
They didn’t have much trouble
teaching the ape to write poems:
first they strapped him into the chair,
then tied the pencil around his hand
(the paper had already been nailed down).
Then Dr. Bluespire leaned over his shoulder
and whispered into his ear:
“You look like a god sitting there.
Why don’t you try writing something?”
.
posted by gwint at 8:38 AM on July 9, 2015 [16 favorites]
.
posted by chicainthecity at 8:50 AM on July 9, 2015
posted by chicainthecity at 8:50 AM on July 9, 2015
I hope has has an "adequate undertaker".
He certainly deserves one.
posted by chavenet at 8:54 AM on July 9, 2015
He certainly deserves one.
posted by chavenet at 8:54 AM on July 9, 2015
Never Again The Same
Speaking of sunsets,
last night's was shocking.
I mean, sunsets aren't supposed to frighten you, are they?
Well, this one was terrifying.
Sure, it was beautiful, but far too beautiful.
It wasn't natural.
One climax followed another and then another
until your knees went weak
and you couldn't breathe.
The colors were definitely not of this world,
peaches dripping opium,
pandemonium of tangerines,
inferno of irises,
Plutonian emeralds,
all swirling and churning, swabbing,
like it was playing with us,
like we were nothing,
as if our whole lives were a preparation for this,
this for which nothing could have prepared us
and for which we could not have been less prepared.
The mockery of it all stung us bitterly.
And when it was finally over
we whimpered and cried and howled.
And then the streetlights came on as always
and we looked into one another's eyes--
ancient caves with still pools
and those little transparent fish
who have never seen even one ray of light.
And the calm that returned to us
was not even our own.
posted by rocket88 at 9:02 AM on July 9, 2015 [12 favorites]
Speaking of sunsets,
last night's was shocking.
I mean, sunsets aren't supposed to frighten you, are they?
Well, this one was terrifying.
Sure, it was beautiful, but far too beautiful.
It wasn't natural.
One climax followed another and then another
until your knees went weak
and you couldn't breathe.
The colors were definitely not of this world,
peaches dripping opium,
pandemonium of tangerines,
inferno of irises,
Plutonian emeralds,
all swirling and churning, swabbing,
like it was playing with us,
like we were nothing,
as if our whole lives were a preparation for this,
this for which nothing could have prepared us
and for which we could not have been less prepared.
The mockery of it all stung us bitterly.
And when it was finally over
we whimpered and cried and howled.
And then the streetlights came on as always
and we looked into one another's eyes--
ancient caves with still pools
and those little transparent fish
who have never seen even one ray of light.
And the calm that returned to us
was not even our own.
posted by rocket88 at 9:02 AM on July 9, 2015 [12 favorites]
The Promotion
I was a dog in my former life, a very good
dog, and, thus, I was promoted to a human being.
I liked being a dog. I worked for a poor farmer
guarding and herding his sheep. Wolves and coyotes
tried to get past me almost every night, and not
once did I lose a sheep. the farmer rewarded me
with good food, food from his table. He may have
been poor, but he ate well. and his children
played with me, when they weren’t in school or
working in the field. I had all the love any dog
could hope for. When I got old, they got a new
dog, and I trained him in the tricks of the trade.
He quickly learned, and the farmer brought me into
the house to live with them. I brought the farmer
his slippers in the morning, as he was getting
old, too. I was dying slowly, a little bit at a
time. The farmer knew this and would bring the
new dog in to visit me from time to time. The
new dog would entertain me with his flips and
flops and nuzzles. And then one morning I just
didn’t get up. They gave me a fine burial down
by the stream under a shade tree. That was the
end of my being a dog. Sometimes I miss it so
I sit by the window and cry. I live in a high-rise
that looks out at a bunch of other high-rises.
At my job I work in a cubicle and barely speak
to anyone all day. This is my reward for being
a good dog. The human wolves don’t even see me.
They fear me not.
posted by WCWedin at 9:23 AM on July 9, 2015 [11 favorites]
I was a dog in my former life, a very good
dog, and, thus, I was promoted to a human being.
I liked being a dog. I worked for a poor farmer
guarding and herding his sheep. Wolves and coyotes
tried to get past me almost every night, and not
once did I lose a sheep. the farmer rewarded me
with good food, food from his table. He may have
been poor, but he ate well. and his children
played with me, when they weren’t in school or
working in the field. I had all the love any dog
could hope for. When I got old, they got a new
dog, and I trained him in the tricks of the trade.
He quickly learned, and the farmer brought me into
the house to live with them. I brought the farmer
his slippers in the morning, as he was getting
old, too. I was dying slowly, a little bit at a
time. The farmer knew this and would bring the
new dog in to visit me from time to time. The
new dog would entertain me with his flips and
flops and nuzzles. And then one morning I just
didn’t get up. They gave me a fine burial down
by the stream under a shade tree. That was the
end of my being a dog. Sometimes I miss it so
I sit by the window and cry. I live in a high-rise
that looks out at a bunch of other high-rises.
At my job I work in a cubicle and barely speak
to anyone all day. This is my reward for being
a good dog. The human wolves don’t even see me.
They fear me not.
posted by WCWedin at 9:23 AM on July 9, 2015 [11 favorites]
How the Pope is Chosen
By James Tate
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
in search of a sheep.
posted by Kattullus at 10:14 AM on July 9, 2015 [8 favorites]
By James Tate
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
in search of a sheep.
posted by Kattullus at 10:14 AM on July 9, 2015 [8 favorites]
.
posted by the sobsister at 10:25 AM on July 9, 2015
posted by the sobsister at 10:25 AM on July 9, 2015
.
posted by GrapeApiary at 10:26 AM on July 9, 2015
posted by GrapeApiary at 10:26 AM on July 9, 2015
All I can say is that it was the impossibly distant days of 1996, and I was 19. I didn't like poetry, I didn't get poetry, and I begrudgingly went to the James Tate reading at the UA poetry center because it was 'required' and 'mandatory' and 'attendance will be checked.'
He was a small guy, and surprisingly wiry. He read from 'The Worshipful Company of Fletchers.'
It was a short reading.
At the end, something had passed from him to the whole room, and I got poetry from that night on, and creative writing went from 'a boring prerequisite' to 'my other major.'
So yeah, thanks, Mr. Tate. Happy trails and onwards hunting, one only supposes. It is 2015-- an unimaginable date-- and you dead in it-- unimaginable.
posted by mrdaneri at 10:45 AM on July 9, 2015 [6 favorites]
He was a small guy, and surprisingly wiry. He read from 'The Worshipful Company of Fletchers.'
It was a short reading.
At the end, something had passed from him to the whole room, and I got poetry from that night on, and creative writing went from 'a boring prerequisite' to 'my other major.'
So yeah, thanks, Mr. Tate. Happy trails and onwards hunting, one only supposes. It is 2015-- an unimaginable date-- and you dead in it-- unimaginable.
posted by mrdaneri at 10:45 AM on July 9, 2015 [6 favorites]
"The Immortals"
None of us have felt good this year:
pus around the eyes,
sores that come and go with no explanation.
But we still believe we will come through it!
I signal this news
by lifting a little finger.
posted by aka burlap at 11:13 AM on July 9, 2015
None of us have felt good this year:
pus around the eyes,
sores that come and go with no explanation.
But we still believe we will come through it!
I signal this news
by lifting a little finger.
posted by aka burlap at 11:13 AM on July 9, 2015
RIP dear sir.
posted by sleepy pete at 11:23 AM on July 9, 2015
posted by sleepy pete at 11:23 AM on July 9, 2015
The Workforce
Do you have adequate oxen for the job?
No, my oxen are inadequate.
Well, how many oxen would it take to do an adequate job?
I would need ten more oxen to do the job adequately.
I'll see if I can get them for you.
I'd be obliged if you could do that for me.
Certainly. And do you have sufficient fishcakes for the men?
We have fifty fishcakes, which is less than sufficient.
I'll have them delivered on the morrow.
Do you need maps of the mountains and the underworld?
We have maps of the mountains but we lack maps of the underworld.
Of course you lack maps of the underworld,
there are no maps of the underworld.
And, besides, you don't want to go there, it's stuffy.
I had no intention of going there, or anywhere for that matter.
It's just that you asked me if I needed maps. . . .
Yes, yes, it's my fault, I got carried away.
What do you need, then, you tell me?
We need seeds, we need plows, we need scythes, chickens,
pigs, cows, buckets and women.
Women?
We have no women.
You're a sorry lot, then.
We are a sorry lot, sir.
Well, I can't get you women.
I assumed as much, sir.
What are you going to do without women, then?
We will suffer, sir. And then we'll die out one by one.
Can any of you sing?
Yes, sir, we have many fine singers among us.
Order them to begin singing immediately.
Either women will find you this way or you will die
comforted. Meanwhile busy yourselves
with the meaningful tasks you have set for yourselves.
Sir, we will not rest until the babes arrive.
posted by Joseph Gurl at 5:32 PM on July 9, 2015 [4 favorites]
Do you have adequate oxen for the job?
No, my oxen are inadequate.
Well, how many oxen would it take to do an adequate job?
I would need ten more oxen to do the job adequately.
I'll see if I can get them for you.
I'd be obliged if you could do that for me.
Certainly. And do you have sufficient fishcakes for the men?
We have fifty fishcakes, which is less than sufficient.
I'll have them delivered on the morrow.
Do you need maps of the mountains and the underworld?
We have maps of the mountains but we lack maps of the underworld.
Of course you lack maps of the underworld,
there are no maps of the underworld.
And, besides, you don't want to go there, it's stuffy.
I had no intention of going there, or anywhere for that matter.
It's just that you asked me if I needed maps. . . .
Yes, yes, it's my fault, I got carried away.
What do you need, then, you tell me?
We need seeds, we need plows, we need scythes, chickens,
pigs, cows, buckets and women.
Women?
We have no women.
You're a sorry lot, then.
We are a sorry lot, sir.
Well, I can't get you women.
I assumed as much, sir.
What are you going to do without women, then?
We will suffer, sir. And then we'll die out one by one.
Can any of you sing?
Yes, sir, we have many fine singers among us.
Order them to begin singing immediately.
Either women will find you this way or you will die
comforted. Meanwhile busy yourselves
with the meaningful tasks you have set for yourselves.
Sir, we will not rest until the babes arrive.
posted by Joseph Gurl at 5:32 PM on July 9, 2015 [4 favorites]
"...I think the pain for him will end in
May or January, through the weather
is far to clear for me to think of
anything but august comedy.
- from 'Pity Ascending with the Fog'
posted by clavdivs at 9:49 PM on July 9, 2015
May or January, through the weather
is far to clear for me to think of
anything but august comedy.
- from 'Pity Ascending with the Fog'
posted by clavdivs at 9:49 PM on July 9, 2015
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posted by Cash4Lead at 8:25 AM on July 9, 2015