Short Story


Not foolish the determinant. “Remember:
Kafka’s turned into,” pronounced William

the Superintendent, “and received, perhaps
unwarranted, his effectiveness . . . have needed

an activist, a scintilla being
otherwise.” Was Springtime browned leaves?

Is sprinkled? The prayers, warmer
days, late April--the school

approaching end. Peter and people
talked, co-governers of paper. Laden,

one inhumanly old Ford, unyielding
to, of, glass. Mary first. . .

***

Poetic Language

Poetic Language was tired of being exciting, the “big fuss” made about it everywhere it meant. It wanted to “pass under the radar screen” so as to recount absurdist parables in flattest, deadpan clichés. Could Bill Merwin help? Naw, he was too good a poet! So Poetic Language thought... but soon Russell, Mark, the two Charleses, and Jim “convinced him it was the right thing to do.”

Kenneth “threw his hands up in despair. . . “

***

Is James Tate an "Ashbery lite"? If I have to ask, he probably is. I read Shroud of the Gnome yesterday. Re-reading "Hush" (David St. John), a receipt fell out of the book, dated 9 August 1978, from Moe's bookstore in Berkeley. So I have had this book almost 25 years. It's the quintessential mid-70s book--

They've carried the fat man who yelled
For more butter on his lobster through the streets
Weeping.

Yet some of it holds up much better than I would have expected. The poem "For Peter Everwine," for example, and the title poem of the collection. Certainly better than most Tate, Strand, and Simic from this period.