Y’all, I am going to see James Tate read tomorrow, and I CANNOT WAIT. If you’re in Los Angeles and you have nothing to do at 4:30 pm tomorrow, you should come too. It’s free, and it’s James Tate. If you need a little help remembering why you should love James Tate, go read “The Lost Pilot.” Tate’s father was a B-17 copilot killed on a bombing mission over Germany during WWII the year Tate was born. As a child, Tate was told that his father’s body had never been found (though he later discovered this wasn’t actually true). Once you know that, the poem becomes even more gorgeous. Anyway, go read it, and — wait, Tumblr won’t let me insert hyperlinks in photo captions? Well, this is the ugly way to do it, but here you go: http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/177311
Pop-upView Separately

Y’all, I am going to see James Tate read tomorrow, and I CANNOT WAIT. If you’re in Los Angeles and you have nothing to do at 4:30 pm tomorrow, you should come too. It’s free, and it’s James Tate.

If you need a little help remembering why you should love James Tate, go read “The Lost Pilot.” Tate’s father was a B-17 copilot killed on a bombing mission over Germany during WWII the year Tate was born. As a child, Tate was told that his father’s body had never been found (though he later discovered this wasn’t actually true). Once you know that, the poem becomes even more gorgeous.

Anyway, go read it, and — wait, Tumblr won’t let me insert hyperlinks in photo captions? Well, this is the ugly way to do it, but here you go: http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/177311

“Where Babies Come From,” by James Tate

Many are from the Maldives,
southwest of India, and must begin
collecting shells almost immediately.
The larger ones may prefer coconuts.
Survivors move from island to island
hopping over one another and never
looking back. After the typhoons
have had their pick, and the birds of prey
have finished with theirs, the remaining few
must build boats, and in this, of course,
they can have no experience, they build
their boats of palm leaves and vines.
Once the work is completed, they lie down,
thoroughly exhausted and confused,
and a huge wave washes them out to sea.
And that is the last they see of one another.
In their dreams Mama and Papa
are standing on the shore
for what seems like an eternity,
and it is almost always the wrong shore.

“Acupuncture,” by James Tate

Not the sleep of a baby, maybe,
but some sleep, a little sleep,
a few minutes here, a few minutes there,
it counts for something, not much,
some gold dust floating by, fool’s gold,
and back in the dressing room, the reproach,
and the gallantry to go on,
and the body snatcher in the chest of drawers,
he too wanting a cigarette, hush,
the needle on the floor pestering
with its testimonials and revolutions,
the nonsense factor like sunshine in the face,
and the moth-eaten bookworm turning his pages
repeats the seven deadly sins but gets them
all wrong and curses, committing one.
But then it’s silence that wakes you
with its huge beak and wings, its retching.
And the frog of a man you once knew
stares for hours down the throat of a nightingale.