James Tate

Last night I went to Real Art Ways in Hartford CT to see James Tate read his poetry. He is an older gentleman who walks with a cane and his poetry makes people laugh and then think. Hard. He is a professor at Umass Amherst. Here is one of his poems. My former teacher and friend C.S. Carrier read as well. I hope to read the next time they have a poetry reading there. I'll let you know. Read some James Tate Poetry.

James Tate - Restless Leg Syndrome

After the burial we returned to our units and assumed our poses. Our posture was the new posture and not the old sick posture. When we left our stations it was just to prove we could, not a serious departure or a search for yet another beginning. We were done with all that. We were settled in, as they say, though it might have been otherwise. What a story! After the burial we returned to our units and here is where I am experiencing that lag kicking syndrome thing. My leg, for no apparent reason, flies around the room kicking stuff, well, whatever is in its way, like a screen or a watering can. Those are just two examples and indeed I could give many more. I could construct a catalogue of the things it kicks, perhaps I will do that later. We'll just have to see if it's really wanted. Or I could do a little now and then return to listing later. It kicked the scrimshaw collection, yes it did. It kicked the ocelot, which was rude and uncalled for, and yes hurtful. It kicked the guacamole right out of its bowl, which made for a grubby and potentially dangerous workplace. I was out testing the new speed bump when it kicked the Viscountess, which she probably deserved, and I was happy, needless to say, to not be a witness. The kicking subsided for a while, nobody was keeping track of time at that time so it is impossible to fill out the forms accurately. Suffice it to say we remained at our units on constant alert. And then it kicked over the little cow town we had set up for punching and that sort of thing, a covered wagon filled with cover girls. But now it was kicked over and we had a moment of silence, but it was clear to me that many of our minions were getting tetchy and some of them were getting tetchier. And then it kicked a particularly treasured snuff box which, legend has it, once belonged to somebody named Bob Mackey, so we were understandably saddened and returned to our units rather weary. No one seemed to think I was in the least bit culpable. It was my leg, of course, that was doing the actual kicking, of that I am almost certain. At any rate, we decided to bury it. After the burial we returned to our units and assumed our poses. A little bit of time passed, not much, and then John's leg started acting suspicious. It looked like it wanted to kick the replica of the White House we keep on hand just for situations such as this. And then, sure enough, it did.