Two poems by James Tate
Let's explore surrealist poetry featuring animal narrators and subjects.
“From the moment I wrote that first poem I ran to the libraries and the bookstores and raided them nonstop…It was falling out of my ears. I was stuffing myself so fanatically and madly. I surely couldn’t understand it all.” —James Tate, via The Paris Review
Like all poets I seem to discover, I stumbled upon James Tate. I’ve probably read some of his work before, but when I read his poetry recently, I was struck by his work. There is so much happening in a James Tate poem: it’s funny and sad, vibrant and overwhelming, absurd yet founded in truth, and a whole host of other wonderful contradictions.
James Tate is a surrealist. His images and phrases take on an absurd quality, bending the parameters we use to understand the world. Unlike many poets that I have featured while gathering, Tate rarely reflects his inner self in his writing. Instead, he tends to create scenarios, often conversations, that take place far away from him and instead reflect some truth about the world around him. He ponders questions of existence and life in talking toads on a log, or blue footed boobies in their ridiculous mating dance, or animals on a porch.
Tate’s poetry excites me; it makes me look at the world in a new way. I think he felt the same way when he discovered poetry. Without further ado, here are two poems by James Tate.
Toads Talking by a River
By James Tate
A book can move from room to room Without anyone touching it. It can climb The staircase and hide under the bed. It Can crawl into bed with you because it knows You need company. And it can read to you In your sleep and you wake a smarter person Or a sadder person. It is good to live Surrounded by books because you never know What can happen next: lost in the inter- Stellar space between teacups in the cupboard, Found in the beak of a downy woodpecker, The lovers staring into the void and then Jumping over it, flying into their beautiful Tomorrows like the heroes of a storm.
It’s funky, right? The title here is paramount because it sets the stage: the entire poem is presumably a conversation between toads by a river. What are these toads interested in? What is all their croaking about?
The rhythm of this poem matches the call and response music of croaking toads on a river bank. When I read this poem, I like to imagine that each line is the croak of a different toad, and when a line is enjambed (or cuts off at the end of the line without any punctuation), that a toad is finishing another toad’s sentence. I love the first two lines as an example:
Toad 1: “A book can move from room to room–”
Toad 2: “Without anyone touching it. It can climb–”
And so on. There’s a really fun, almost chaotic musicality to this poem, a chorus of toads talking over each other, unraveling human nature a thread at a time. I think the focus of this poem being on the power and humanity of books is wonderful, too. This poem tells the story of creatures that have never read or understood a book trying to understand and rationalize why all of us humans treasure books and writing so much. And all of the images! How quirky and interesting and real! Everything in this poem feels like I could reach out and feel it if I wanted to–I could grab onto it and better understand myself.
I could go on about this poem, but we have more to read…
Stray Animals
By James Tate
This is the beauty of being alone Toward the end of the summer: A dozen stray animals asleep on the porch In the shade of my feet, And the smell of leaves burning In another neighborhood. It is latte morning, And my forehead is alive with shadows, Some bats rock back and forth To the rhythm of my humming, The mimosa flutters with bees. This is a house of unwritten poems, This is where I am unborn.
The poem begins where summer ends–a time of year when the world cools off, when the green turns to brilliant fall colors, and the animals become moored. There is so much peace in this poem. It’s a “latte morning” and the air is filled with the smoke of burning leaves. There is shade and shadows, animals dozing on the porch and rocking back and forth in the rafters. There is life and it is lazy. There are stray animals and they are gentle, tired. Everything is alive and calm, and there are poems to be written.
Unlike the previous poem, “Stray Animals” is grounded in the personal. There is a human narrator who is watching the world around him change and is moved by it. He writes: “This is where I am unborn.” Maybe the narrator isn’t a person at all, but nature personified; the earth itself seems to be unborn in the fall, when leaves die and there is one last bout of beauty before the dead of winter. This poem is the humming of the bees and the sizzling of fire, and all of life converging before disappearing for the winter.
This poem makes me feel calm and happy, and I can’t quite figure out why. There is a lovely rhythm here, slow and languid. There are peaceful noises and calm imagery, and despite the knowledge of the coming cold, this poem makes me feel warm. In the end, I’m left thinking of the opening words: “this is the beauty.”
If you enjoy this poem and want to read more… you can find more from James Tate’s poems here.
If you want to read more poems about animals… try the poem “The Hermit Crab” by Mary Oliver or “The Blue Booby” by James Tate.
If you want to try writing poetry… try writing a poem with a non-human narrator. What does it do to the language you use? What about the rhythm?