I'll give up my sleep for you.
I am beginning to think James Tate and I share an intimate relationship.
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.
I was thrilled to realize that the entire beginning of this poem is irrelevant, though necessary to understand the signifigance of its end. My classmates were focused on the sunset and didn't seem to follow my assertion that the sunset and its description are irrelevant. The reader cannot comprehend why the sunset was so beautiful, and Tate could just have easily replaced "sunset" with anything and not changed the importance of the ending: following an intimate experience, one never regains her composure.
While that poem is great, my actual reasoning behind the claim Tate and I have a relationship is he writes like I do. I read it, it doesn't make a damn bit of sence, and that's okay!
"I had a stranglehold ona straw man,
the son of a bitch was dying fast,
and then I let go and floated for a while"
The last two lines of that poem, entitled Chronology of Events, read:
"and stupid, stupid, stupid.
This was revealed to me around 2:24 P.M., 9/27/95."
Another entitled You Be the One ends:
".... And now
I really must get some sleep.
Tomorrow, the world!"
And to conclude, one of his better works (or so I am thus far led to believe).
Goodtime Jesus
Jesus got up one day a little later than usual. He had been dreaming so deep there was nothing left in his head. What was it? A nightmare, dead bodies walking all around him, eyes rolled back, skin falling off. But he wasn't afraid of that. It was a beautifuyl day. How 'bout some coffee? Don't mind if I do. Take a little ride on my donkey. I love that donkey. Hell, I love everybody.
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.
I was thrilled to realize that the entire beginning of this poem is irrelevant, though necessary to understand the signifigance of its end. My classmates were focused on the sunset and didn't seem to follow my assertion that the sunset and its description are irrelevant. The reader cannot comprehend why the sunset was so beautiful, and Tate could just have easily replaced "sunset" with anything and not changed the importance of the ending: following an intimate experience, one never regains her composure.
While that poem is great, my actual reasoning behind the claim Tate and I have a relationship is he writes like I do. I read it, it doesn't make a damn bit of sence, and that's okay!
"I had a stranglehold ona straw man,
the son of a bitch was dying fast,
and then I let go and floated for a while"
The last two lines of that poem, entitled Chronology of Events, read:
"and stupid, stupid, stupid.
This was revealed to me around 2:24 P.M., 9/27/95."
Another entitled You Be the One ends:
".... And now
I really must get some sleep.
Tomorrow, the world!"
And to conclude, one of his better works (or so I am thus far led to believe).
Goodtime Jesus
Jesus got up one day a little later than usual. He had been dreaming so deep there was nothing left in his head. What was it? A nightmare, dead bodies walking all around him, eyes rolled back, skin falling off. But he wasn't afraid of that. It was a beautifuyl day. How 'bout some coffee? Don't mind if I do. Take a little ride on my donkey. I love that donkey. Hell, I love everybody.