Search Results for: james tate

November 11, 2023

“A Shipwrecked Person” by James TatePosted by

James Tate

A SHIPWRECKED PERSON

When I woke from my afternoon nap, I wanted
to hold onto my dream, but in a matter of seconds
it had drifted away like a fine mist. Nothing
remained; oh, perhaps a green corner of cloth
pinched between my fingers, signifying what?
Everything about the house seemed alien to me.
The scissors yawned. The plants glowed. The
mirror was full of pain and stories that made no
sense to me. I moved like a ghost through the rooms.
Stacks of books with secret formulas and ancient
hieroglyphic predictions. And lamps, like stern
remonstrances. The silverware is surely more
guilty than I. The doorknobs don’t even believe
in tomorrow. The green cloth is burning-up. I
toss it into the freezer with a sigh of relief.

—from Rattle #17, Summer 2002

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May 8, 2023

“Burger King” by Bill GarveyPosted by

Bill Garvey

BURGER KING

The first man in line can’t find his money. 
He slaps at the pockets of his jeans and his jacket. 
 
He looks behind and beside himself, then directly at me 
As if I could solve his dilemma, or that I picked his pocket. 
 
I shrug as the aroma of grease sneaks into my olfactory. 
The girl in the ketchup-colored vest and bonnet 
 
Has been waiting rather patiently. 
Finally, he finds it, pulls a bill from his wallet, 
 
Shakes his head, hands her the twenty, 
And we all move a notch on this sprocket.
 

—from Rattle #79, Spring 2023

__________

Bill Garvey: “James Tate’s book, Absences, influenced me to write poetry more than any other thing I can remember. It was 1972. I was 17. He was no less a rock star to me than Mick Jagger. Thirty-five years later, I confronted Tate at an event in Brattleboro, Vermont, at the urging of my wife. He sat on stage before his reading. As I approached, he grimaced. I regretted my decision, but it was too late. Sheepishly, I made my request to interview him for a paper. His wife, Dara Wier, sensing his reluctance, said, ‘What have you got to lose?’ I gave Tate my phone number. I’ll never hear from him, I thought, leaving the stage. Less than a week later the phone rang at our home. My daughter answered. I had blocked out the event in Brattleboro until she said, ‘Dad, it’s for you. Some guy named James Tate.’”

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December 20, 2019

“At the Forty Winks Motel” by David JamesPosted by

David James

AT THE FORTY WINKS MOTEL

after James Tate

“What’s in the briefcase?” Sheila asked as she unbuttoned her blouse. “Oh, nothing,” I said. “It’s not nothing,” she said, “or else you wouldn’t have brought it here.” She unhooked her bra and slid her jeans to the floor. “I was going to surprise you,” I said. I was naked except for my socks. “I like surprises,” she said, turning to brush her teeth. I loved the curves in her hips as she faced away from me, running her fingers through her hair and spitting into the sink. 
        When Sheila got into bed with me, I put the briefcase on my lap. “Here it is,” I said, opening the case. “Portable darkness.” The room went dark. Completely dark. “Wow,” she said. “Where did you get this?” “On the dark web, of course. It was the last one.” “That’s kinda sexy,” she whispered. I felt her body snuggle up against mine as I set the briefcase gently on the side table. “As long as it’s open, we’ll have utter darkness around us. No matter what.” Sheila kissed my neck, ending with a little tongue lick. “Even in broad daylight?” she asked. “Yes,” I said. Sheila ran her left hand over my chest. “Even at the beach?” “Absolutely,” I said. She wrapped one of her smooth legs over both of my legs. “Even at church?” I think I said yes; I’m not sure because it was dark, and I couldn’t see, but I could feel.
        And let me tell you, nothing feels better than portable darkness.

—from Rattle #65, Fall 2019

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David James: “It’s interesting to see what you read influence your work. I read ‘Three Tall Women’ by Albee, and then I write a short play called ‘Three Small Men.’ I read about the holocaust and somehow those images begin to appear in my poems. I read Ghost Soldiers by James Tate, and I find myself writing these short prose poems. Inspiration? Imitation? Jealousy? I prefer to think of it as ‘standing on the shoulders’ of our heroes.”

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May 6, 2017

“Lessons” by Gabriela IgloriaPosted by

Gabriela Igloria (age 15)

LESSONS

after James Tate

Fathers tell them over and over again not to lean
out of windows, but the sky is full of them.
There is no right and left or up and down when you
look up at the sky. Be careful that you do not fall—

gravity will pull you down. The yellow detour sign
is at an angle where its black arrow points down
at Hell or perhaps up at Heaven. There is no way
of telling which way it truly points.

Once you are in space, the arrow doesn’t matter.
Every way is right and wrong and left and right
and up and down and diagonal at the same time.
The universe is everything and nothing.

What is the answer? School kids say 42 and laugh.
If the answer to the universe is discovered, maybe
everything will change. The universe will fold itself up
like a play after the audience has left, and you are still

wondering about the prestige, the tanks full of water,
and the dead man’s many bodies that are all the same.
You wonder about all the dead bird twins left for no one
in crushed, rusty cages hidden in gaps in magic tables.

The magician has a large fishbowl in his non-existent stomach.
Where is the man who holds the chapter book of your life
in his hands? What do you do when you reach the last page
of your own story? The paradox will close in on itself,

and everything will cease to exist the way it existed before
and will exist again but this time without you—
you, the creator of worlds. Do not lean out of windows.
You will fall into the sky and wonder and inquire and search

and ask too many questions the way kids do
when they ask Why? over and over again.
You tell them Do not lean out of windows,
but the sky is just so hopelessly full of them.

—from 2017 Rattle Young Poets Anthology

__________

Why do you like to write poetry?

Gabriela Igloria: “As the years progress, I learn more about myself and more about the world around me, and as I go about each day many thoughts pile up in the back of my mind. As much as I would like to vocally express all my thoughts, I don’t always get the chance to speak my mind. I like to write because writing allows me to ease those thoughts that never make it past my lips. Rather than letting the words roll off my tongue at any given moment, I can preserve them in my head and write them down later when I have more freedom to write whatever I want or need to write. Writing is essentially, for me, an outlet or a friend to whom I can say anything to without a fear of being judged by it.”

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January 30, 2017

“The Windmill Farm” by Jose Hernandez DiazPosted by

Jose Hernandez Diaz

THE WINDMILL FARM

I was drawing a windmill onto the fog in the mirror after a shower, when I thought, why am I drawing a windmill onto the fog in the mirror? Then I answered, I’m drawing a windmill because it is a metaphor for rain. Next, I wiped the windmill off the mirror with my towel, and got ready for work. I work at a windmill farm 45 miles east of Los Angeles. The job consists mostly of staring at windmills. Mondays we meditate under the windmills, the company brings in a yogi with a PhD in philosophy. Tuesdays are Texas hold ’em Tuesdays. Wednesdays we stare at the windmills with absolute fear. Thursdays we check for mechanical failures and other duties as necessary. Fridays, Fridays we wipe the windmill blades clean of flies and mosquito guts. Then on weekends I watch boxing and long for the swooshing sounds of the windmill farm. Weekends are tough, but it’s only two days.

—from Rattle #54, Winter 2016

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Jose Hernandez Diaz: “I write for the adrenaline rush that is creation, the precision that comes with editing, and the satisfaction of publication. I’m interested in the strange and the beautiful. In exotic animals, like jaguars. In boxing. I’m interested in Kafka, James Tate, Russell Edson, Ray Gonzalez, and Christopher Kennedy, to name a few.” (web)

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July 15, 2015

“Somali Shopping for Organic Figs” by James TatePosted by

James Tate

SOMALI SHOPPING FOR ORGANIC FIGS

I was walking out of the health food store
and into the parking lot when something powerful
and strange stopped me dead in my tracks. A woman
dressed from head to toe in a black veil, a bui-bui,
I believe it’s called in Arabic, stood stock-still,
alone, tall, only her eyes showing, but oh what eyes,
like bits of onyx set in virgin snow. A panther would
have been less shocking than this woman. Everyone
who saw her just stopped and stared. Normal manners
didn’t seem to apply to this situation. She was
the most beautiful woman I had ever seen, and yet,
I saw nothing but those eyes. Perhaps she was stricken
in terror. Children walked right up to her and stood
staring in awe. It felt like some tremendous mistake.
But maybe she was only dreaming, and we were dreaming
along with her. It was a cruel dream, the kind that
changes you forever, and waking from it was strictly
forbidden. Her bui-bui was made in Heaven, the blackest
corner of it.

—from Rattle #17, Summer 2002

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April 15, 2015

“The Robert Frost Kickball Club” by Maceo J. WhitakerPosted by

Maceo J. Whitaker

THE ROBERT FROST KICKBALL CLUB

In my soul grows a small soul.
In my small soul, one smaller.
Infinite repetition, nonstop loop.
Each beanstalk is an endophyte.
Inside my teeth lie small baby teeth.
Inside those, infinitesimal baby teeth.
I reject each grim oath whispered
by gypsies in Western Mass. I fumigate
rotting futons. If he were still akickin’
I’d kick Robert Frost’s ass
in kickball. I’d pop the ball, restitch it
with shards of marble. I’d talk shit +
run up the motherfuckin’ score.
The game within the game.
I hereby donate my bargain-bin
Kama Sutra handbook to a humanoid
giraffe named Koan. Koan rocks black
glasses and a Kangol. Inside Koan’s
neck is a neck; inside that neck,
a deep well. Neck-flex. How
ponderous. How ponderous the axons
fired into the cortex inside his cortex.
Over there’s the BBQ, the smoky pavilion.
Over there the gypsy fan club.
Over here is Robby-Boy, pinned
with a participation ribbon.
He pouts and kicks a rock.
His soul slips off its helix.
Gyres widen around the bases.
Poetry trophy-wives applaud.
Inside the MVP is an MVP.
DJ Koan is spun out, like his vinyl.
’Til
’Til
’Til
’Til it skips.

—from Rattle #46, Winter 2014

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Maceo J. Whitaker: “I live in the thriving arts community of Beacon, New York. My favorite poets include Martín Espada, Mary Karr, and James Tate. My favorite rappers are Redman and Big L. I have many failed epic poems, including one in which mushroom consumption goes awry at a Draco Malfoy convention.” (website)

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