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#James Tate
firstfullmoon · 7 months
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James Tate, “Stray Animals”
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lamp2003 · 11 months
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goodtime jesus
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tinyghosthands · 2 years
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Happy Goodtime Jesus Day.
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the-replacemints · 4 months
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The Cowboy by James Tate
source and transcript under the cut
Someone had spread an elaborate rumor about me, that I was in possession of an extraterrestrial being, and I thought I knew who it was. It was Roger Lawson. Roger was a practical joker of the worst sort, and up till now I had not been one of his victims, so I kind of knew my time had come. People parked in front of my house for hours and took pictures. I had to draw all my blinds and only went out when I had to. Then there was a barrage of questions. “What does he look like?” “What do you feed him?” “How did you capture him?” And I simple denied the presence of an extraterrestrial in my house. And, of course, this excited them all the more. The press showed up and started creeping around my yard. It got to be very irritating. More and more came and parked up and down the street. Roger was working overtime on this one. I had to do something. Finally, I made an announcement. I said, “The little fellow died peacefully in his sleep at 11:02 last night.” “Let us see the body,” they clamored. “He went up in smoke instantly,” I said. “I don’t believe you,” one of them said. “There is no body in the house or I would have buried it myself,” I said. About half of them got in their cars and drove off. The rest of them kept their vigil, but more solemnly now. I went out and bought some groceries. When I came back about an hour later another half of them had gone. When I went into the kitchen I nearly dropped the groceries. There was a nearly transparent fellow with large pink eyes standing about three feet tall. “Why did you tell them I was dead? That was a lie,” he said. “You speak English,” I said. “I listen to the radio. It wasn’t very hard to learn. Also we have television. We get all your channels. I like cowboys, especially John Ford movies. They’re the best,” he said. “What am I going to do with you?” I said. “Take me to meet a real cowboy. That would make me happy,” he said. “I  don’t know any real cowboys, but maybe we could find one. But people will go crazy if they see you. We’d have press following us everywhere. It would be the story of a century,” I said. “I can be invisible. It’s not hard for me to do,” he said. “I’ll think about it. Wyoming or Montana would be our best bet, but they’re a long way from here,” I said. “Please, I won’t cause you any trouble,” he said. “It would take some planning,” I said. I put the groceries down and started putting them away. I tried not to think of the cosmic meaning of all this. Instead, I treated him like a smart little kid. “Do you have any sarsaparilla?” he said. “No, but I have some orange juice. It’s good for you,” I said. He drank it and made a face. “I’m going to get the maps out,” I said. “We’ll see how we could get there.” When I came back he was dancing on the kitchen table, a sort of ballet, but very sad. “I have the maps,” I said. “We won’t need them. I just received word. I’m going to die tonight. It’s really a joyous occasion, and I hope you’ll help me celebrate by watching The Magnificent Seven,” he said. I stood there with the maps in my hand. I felt an unbearable sadness come over me. “Why must you die?” I said. “Father decides these things. It is probably my reward for coming here safely and meeting you,” he said. “But I was going to take you to meet a real cowboy,” I said. “Let’s pretend you are my cowboy,” he said.
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contremineur · 1 month
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The blue booby lives on the bare rocks of Galápagos and fears nothing. It is a simple life: they live on fish, and there are few predators. Also, the males do not make fools of themselves chasing after the young ladies. Rather, they gather the blue objects of the world and construct from them a nest—an occasional Gaulois package, a string of beads, a piece of cloth from a sailor’s suit. This replaces the need for dazzling plumage; in fact, in the past fifty million years the male has grown considerably duller, nor can he sing well. The female, though, asks little of him— the blue satisfies her completely, has a magical effect on her. When she returns from her day of gossip and shopping, she sees he has found her a new shred of blue foil: for this she rewards him with her dark body, the stars turn slowly in the blue foil beside them like the eyes of a mild saviour.
James Tate, The blue booby
Those last five lines...
from here
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On the Prose Poem by James Tate
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roadkillrotten · 1 year
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"The Promotion" by James Tate
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sivavakkiyar · 10 months
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James Tate, Teaching The Ape To Write Poems
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codedreams · 8 months
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—James Tate, The Remains II
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seekingstars · 3 months
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Wild Beasts - James Tate
In the front all the weapons were loaded. We sat there in the dark with not so much as a whisper. We could hear sounds outside—skirrs, rasps, the occasional yap, ting. We were alert, perhaps, too alert. Ready to shoot a fly for just being a fly. When you don't sleep you start to hallucinate and that's not good. One night this crazy notion started to possess me: I said, "Who are our enemies anyhow? We don't have any enemies. What are we doing here? We should be with our families doing what families do. I'm laying down this gun and I'm leaving right now." I knew there was a chance that one of them might shoot me. Instead they all laid down their guns and we walked right out into the moon- lit night, frightened, now, only of ourselves.
Source: The Small Bow
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badoccultadvice · 10 months
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🐠 The Memories of Fish 🐟
by James Tate
Stanley took a day off from the office and spent the whole day talking to fish in his aquarium. To the little catfish scuttling along the bottom he said, "Vacuum that scum, boy. Suck it up, that's your job. " The skinny pencil fish swam by and he said, "Scribble, scribble, scribble. Write me a novel, needle- nose." The angel executed a particularly masterful left-turn and Stanley said, "You're no angel, but you sure can drive." Then he broke for lunch and made himself a tuna fish sandwich the irony of which did not escape him. Oh no, he wallowed in it, savoring every bite. Then he returned to his chair in front of the aquarium. A swarm of tiny neons amused him. "What do you think this is, Times Square!" he shouted. And so it went long into the night. The next morning Stanley was horribly embarrassed by his behavior and he apologized to the fish several times, but they never really forgave him. He had mocked their very fishiness, and for this there can be no forgiveness.
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helenewate · 4 months
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While most prose is a kind of continuous chatter, describing, naming, explaining, poetry speaks against an essential backdrop of silence. It is almost reluctant to speak at all, knowing that it can never fully name what is at the heart of its intention. There is a prayerful, haunted silence between words, between phrases, between images, ideas and lines. This is one reason why good poems can be read over and over. The reader, perhaps without knowing it, instinctively desires to peer between the cracks into the other world where the unspoken rests in darkness. 
—James Tate, Live yak pie
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wordslivehere · 7 months
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Stray Animals
James Tate
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manwalksintobar · 8 months
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The Lost Pilot  // James Tate
for my father, 1922-1944
Your face did not rot like the others—the co-pilot,  for example, I saw him
yesterday. His face is corn- mush: his wife and daughter,  the poor ignorant people, stare
as if he will compose soon. He was more wronged than Job.  But your face did not rot
like the others—it grew dark, and hard like ebony; the features progressed in their
distinction. If I could cajole you to come back for an evening,  down from your compulsive
orbiting, I would touch you,  read your face as Dallas,  your hoodlum gunner, now,
with the blistered eyes, reads  his braille editions. I would touch your face as a disinterested
scholar touches an original page.  However frightening, I would  discover you, and I would not
turn you in; I would not make  you face your wife, or Dallas,  or the co-pilot, Jim. You
could return to your crazy  orbiting, and I would not try  to fully understand what
it means to you. All I know  is this: when I see you,  as I have seen you at least
once every year of my life,  spin across the wilds of the sky  like a tiny, African god,
I feel dead. I feel as if I were  the residue of a stranger’s life,  that I should pursue you.
My head cocked toward the sky,  I cannot get off the ground,  and, you, passing over again,
fast, perfect, and unwilling  to tell me that you are doing  well, or that it was mistake
that placed you in that world, and me in this; or that misfortune  placed these worlds in us.
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gustaving · 2 years
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James Tate
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13434052 · 1 year
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James Tate, “From the Hole”
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