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The Ghost Soldiers: Poems
Până la James Tate
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Începeți să citițiEvaluări:
Evaluare: 4.5 din 5 stele4.5/5 (10 stele)
Lungime: 201 pagini3 ore
- Editor:
- HarperCollins
- Lansat:
- Jul 8, 2008
- ISBN:
- 9780061734434
- Format:
- Carte
Nota redactorului
Exquisite & eccentric…
Exquisite and eccentric, these surreal poems by the Pulitzer Prize-winning writer are accessible to anyone who appreciates the absurd in everyday life.
Descriere
Pulitzer Prize-winning poet James Tate returns with his fifteenth book of poetry, an exciting new collection that offers nearly one hundred fresh and thought-provoking pieces that embody Tate's trademark style and voice: his accessibility, his dark humor, and his exquisite sense of the absurd.
Tate's work is stark—he writes in clear, everyday language—yet his seemingly simple and macabre stories are layered with broad and trenchant meaning. His characters are often lost or confused, his settings bizarre, his scenarios brilliantly surreal. Opaque, inscrutable people float through a dreamlike world where nothing is as it seems. The Ghost Soldiers offers resounding proof, once again, that Tate stands alone in American poetry.
Informații despre carte
The Ghost Soldiers: Poems
Până la James Tate
Evaluări:
Evaluare: 4.5 din 5 stele4.5/5 (10 stele)
Lungime: 201 pagini3 ore
Nota redactorului
Exquisite & eccentric…
Exquisite and eccentric, these surreal poems by the Pulitzer Prize-winning writer are accessible to anyone who appreciates the absurd in everyday life.
Descriere
Pulitzer Prize-winning poet James Tate returns with his fifteenth book of poetry, an exciting new collection that offers nearly one hundred fresh and thought-provoking pieces that embody Tate's trademark style and voice: his accessibility, his dark humor, and his exquisite sense of the absurd.
Tate's work is stark—he writes in clear, everyday language—yet his seemingly simple and macabre stories are layered with broad and trenchant meaning. His characters are often lost or confused, his settings bizarre, his scenarios brilliantly surreal. Opaque, inscrutable people float through a dreamlike world where nothing is as it seems. The Ghost Soldiers offers resounding proof, once again, that Tate stands alone in American poetry.
- Editor:
- HarperCollins
- Lansat:
- Jul 8, 2008
- ISBN:
- 9780061734434
- Format:
- Carte
Despre autor
James Tate was born in Kansas City, Missouri, in 1943. He is the author of seventeen books of poetry, including Worshipful Company of Fletchers, which won the National Book Award in 1994; Selected Poems, which won the Pulitzer Prize and the William Carlos Williams Award in 1991; and The Lost Pilot, which was selected by Dudley Fitts for the Yale Series of Younger Poets. He has also published a novel and a collection of short stories, as well as edited The 1997 Best American Poetry Anthology. His honors include a National Institute of Arts and Letters Award for Poetry, the Tanning Prize, the Pulitzer Prize, the National Book Award, and fellowships from the Guggenheim Foundation and the National Endowment for the Arts. He teaches at the University of Massachusetts in Amherst.
Legat de The Ghost Soldiers
Mostră carte
The Ghost Soldiers - James Tate
said.
HUMAN IN SHAPE
I reached out my hand in one direction and felt something like silk, a silk scarf fit for a princess. I reached out my other hand and something bit it, a monkey perhaps. Thus, I concluded, I must be in India. Someone entered the room and said, Get up!
I attempted to stand but was bent double. I attempted to straighten out, but I could not. Stand up straight,
the voice said. Sir, I cannot. This is how I am shaped,
I said. All right, march over here,
he said. I had only a vague idea of where he was, but I marched over there, if you could call that marching. Stop,
he said, and I stopped. You are to meet the captain and he is a very important man. You must listen to him and follow out his orders. Do you understand?
he said. Oh, yes, sir, I will do exactly as I am ordered,
I said. He opened a door and then another door and then another door. And then, finally, there was the captain bent over his desk with a green light shining on him. I was still bent over to my waist, but, still, I waited for him to notice me. He said nothing. I started singing a little ditty beneath my breath. Finally, he looked up and said, What are you, some kind of crippled rabbit or something?
That’s very funny, sir. Crippled rabbit I may be, but I am here to follow your orders,
I said. That’s my boy. Now can you hop for me,
he said. I concentrated all my efforts and started to hop around the room. Excellent,
he said. Now can you bend over further and sneak around the room as quietly as you can,
he said. The captain was just a green blur to me. I couldn’t really see him. Still, I did what I was told, nearly bumping into a chair I didn’t see. Now I want you to charge me with all your might and see if you can knock me over,
he said. Sir, I weigh only a few pounds and am quite sickly. I do not think this is a fair contest,
I said. Who said anything about fair? I intend to crush you into a little ball of fur,
he said. He really did think I was a rabbit. This bothered me. After so many years in the infirmary, how could anybody think I was still a rabbit. I slunk out of his room with my head nearly banging against my knees, longing for my bed again, not knowing if I’d ever find it.
DESPERATE TALK
I asked Jasper if he had any ideas about the coming revolution. I didn’t know there was a revolution coming,
he said. Well, people are pretty disgusted. There might be,
I said. I wish you wouldn’t just make things up. You’re always trying to fool with me,
he said. There are soldiers everywhere. It’s hard to tell which side they’re on,
I said. They’re against us. Everyone’s against us. Isn’t that what you believe?
he said. Not everyone. There are a few misguided stragglers who still believe in something or other,
I said. Well, that gives me heart,
he said. Never give up the faith,
I said. Who said I ever had any?
he said. Shame on you, Jasper. It’s important to believe in the cause,
I said. The cause of you digging us deeper into a hole?
he said. No, the cause of the people standing together for their rights, freedom and all,
I said. Well, that’s long gone. We have no rights,
he said. We fell silent for the next few minutes. I was staring out the window at a rabbit in the yard. Finally, I said, I was just saying all that to amuse you.
So was I,
he said. Do you believe in God?
I said. God’s in prison,
he said. What’d he do?
I said. Everything,
he said.
THE MEMORY PALACE
There wasn’t a light on in the place at that time of night. I walked around in back and tried the door. Of course it was locked. There was a thick vine growing up the side of the building, so I tried climbing that. I was almost up when it started to wobble and detach itself from the building. I came crashing down and cut my forehead and arms. I found a fire escape in front and climbed that. I broke into the second-story window and was amazed to find stacks and stacks of photo albums and files overflowing on the floor. I turned on a light, though I knew the dangers of that. There seemed to be no order to anything. I pulled up a chair and picked up an album—children on ponies in cowboy outfits, children holding fish they caught, birthday cakes, parties, swings, dances, no end to the fascination with children, but somehow they all seemed to be a part of the same childhood. Then there was the album of the near-dead, breathing tubes, feeding bags, the glazed, faraway looks of the nearly departed. In the Memory Palace nothing is lost, just misplaced. I spent most of the night there until I was so exhausted I could barely keep my eyes open. While going through the many albums devoted to young lovers, I suddenly froze. There was a photo of my mother and father, badly faded, barely twenty years old, perhaps not even married yet, holding hands and smiling into the camera, the world holding back its fury for one brief second, giving them their moment of sunshine, so fragile and tenuous. I removed the photo from its pocket and stuck it in mine. I went to the window and looked down. An old man in a uniform stood there. Come on down, son, we’re going to have to arrest you,
he said. But, officer, I’m an old man,
I said. The Memory Palace has no memory. See, it just doesn’t care,
he said.
PLAN B
Joaquin said to forget the old plan. It had been thoroughly replaced with a new plan. Okay, what’s the new plan?
I said. Some final details have to be worked out, but we’ll have it soon,
he said. So, we are between plans, which means, at the moment, we don’t have a plan,
I said. I wouldn’t put it like that. That’s putting a negative spin on our otherwise bright future,
he said. I’ll wait for the revised plan before I start talking about our bright future,
I said. We’re just in a crevasse right now, hunkering down, keeping watch,
he said. I feel like I’m lost and vulnerable, without a map, ready to be taken out with the first volley,
I said. Darrell walked into the room just then. What’s wrong with you?
he said. I’m lost,
I said. Well, I’ve seen the second plan and it’s much better than the first, trust me,
he said. But when will it arrive?
I said. Soon, they’re almost finished with it, just a few finishing touches,
he said. Joaquin said, These guys really know what they’re doing, they’re the best.
I don’t even know who they are,
I said. You’re not supposed to,
Darrell said. It’s none of your business,
Joaquin said. But I’m not some kind of laboratory rat,
I said. You’ll be all right, you’ll see,
Darrell said. A little later a man with a mask on came in and handed Joaquin a piece of paper. After the man left, Joaquin said, Okay, follow me.
We went out on the street and started walking. A man said hello to me and I said hello back. Was that okay, Joaquin?
I said. Very good,
he said. A while later a girl I knew came up and hugged me. Joaquin, was that a mistake?
I said. No, perfect,
he said. Finally, we went into the ice-cream parlor. A waitress took our order. A woman came up to Darrell and said, Mind if I join you?
Darrell said, Of course not, please do.
She said, Darrell, I’ve missed you. Where have you been?
Darrell looked at Joaquin, Joaquin nodded. Then Darrell said, Plan B has allowed me to find you. We must always be grateful for that.
Glory be to Plan B,
we all spoke together. I started licking my chocolate cone with a deep sense of mystery.
THE LOST TRIBE
A red Frisbee sailed overhead and we all knelt down and prayed. What we were praying for I don’t know. In fact, I didn’t even know what I was doing with this group of lunatics. They were constantly looking for signs. I didn’t really believe in that kind of thing. But when they kneeled to pray, I did too, only I didn’t really pray. What do you think that flock of pigeons means?
one of them said to me. It means we have strayed from God’s embrace,
I said. Tragic, isn’t it?
he said. Indeed,
I said. We walked on through a field of clover. There was an old tractor covered with rust. One woman stumbled and fell. Leave her. She will be a hindrance to us,
the leader said. Two deer saw us and started to run. O holy days, the end is near,
my companion said. We all fell down and started to pray. I don’t think the end is near,
someone said. Of course the end is near,
someone else said. Two deer running away, that’s the sign, isn’t it?
Two deer running away means something wonderful is about to happen,
I said. I didn’t see any deer. I think you just imagined them,
someone said. We had better be moving on. It’s going to get dark soon,
the leader said. Soon, we entered a forest. I think this is a mistake. We’re going to get lost,
I said. Lost is for the unbeliever. There will be a sign, mark my word,
he said. The forest has too many signs,
I said. A pileated woodpecker swooped down and flew right over us. This is where we are meant to camp,
the leader said. It was dusk when we set up the tents. I don’t like it here,
I said. God won’t let us down. He never does,
my companion said. Night fell. I said, We must get out of here. Something terrible is going to happen to us.
There was no answer. So, with my flashlight on, I started walking through the trees. I never did like those people. They were a lost tribe, and I wasn’t lost, just confused.
THE NEW HORSES
When the horses arrived I was so happy. I put them out in the field and they seemed to like it, except for the flies. Then, later, I made sure they got fed. The pinto bucked up and kicked the fence, which shocked me, but then everything was all right again. Later, when they settled down for the night, there was a sound like a snake hissing in one of the stalls, but I couldn’t find anything. In the morning, when I let them out, the bay was limping. I tried to examine her, but she kicked me in the head and I was out for a good fifteen minutes before I woke. She was all right by then. The sorrel had jumped the fence while I was out and I went and got the truck. I found her about three miles down the road. Someone in a truck or car had grazed her and she was lying down by the side of the road. I managed to pull her up and she made it up the plank into the back of the truck. When I let her back in the pen, I realized her leg was broken and she would have to be shot. The chestnut let out a loud whinny. The roan walked over and stomped on my foot very deliberately. My foot hurt, but, more importantly, my feelings were hurt. I really wanted to make these horses happy. The pinto took off running and crashed into the fence. The chestnut started chasing the sorrel until the sorrel collapsed. My head was buzzing, my stomach churning. The bay jumped over the tractor and was headed right for me. I ran out of the pen and shut the fence. The sorrel was suffering. I had to put her out of her misery. I got my rifle from the house. I loved these horses, I really did, but something wasn’t right with them. The chestnut wouldn’t let me in the gate. The pinto started chanting in Latin. The roan looked like it had grown a horn in its forehead. I started firing every which way, blind as a bat.
THE NATIVE AMERICANS
We found them on your lawn this morning, about seventy-five of them,
the officer said. What are they?
I said. Well, they’re some kind of Native Americans, we don’t know what kind yet, but we will. We used an electrical device to paralyze them, but they’ll start coming to in about twenty-four hours. Some of them will only live for about an hour, and others could live as long as sixty years. So we’ll start in reeducating them right away,
he said. But where did they come from?
I said. Well, we don’t really know, but some of our scientists think they just rose up out of the ground, some signal goes off in them, like a timer,
he said. You mean all this time I have been living in a cemetery?
I said. Apparently,
he said. Well, that explains a lot,
I said. What do you mean?
he said. Just recently I have felt the house shake a lot at night, and I thought I heard distant cries, and I would wake covered in sweat, which I thought was blood,
I said. Why don’t you come down here tomorrow morning and we’ll show you some of the men,
he said. Thank you, officer,
I said. Of course I was made miserable by the thought that these men had been buried beneath my lawn all these years, but what could I do? The lawn was an unholy mess. It would have to be completely redone in the spring. I showed up at the police department around 10:00 the next morning as told. There behind glass doors were these half-awake men, moaning and shuffling about. They don’t look very dangerous,
I said to the officer. That’s why I wanted you to come in early. I didn’t want you to see that part of it,
he said. What do you do then?
I said. More electricity. Then slowly we start to reeducate. Some of them will go quite far,
he said. And what about the others?
I said. Oh, we’ll rebury them with a jolt that will keep them down a good long time,
he said. In my yard?
I said. That’s their native ground,
he said.
TWO VISIONS
I look around and I see two figures running across a landscape, their coats in tatters, their legs about to give out,
I said. "That’s funny. I see two figures dancing
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jburlinson_3
Here is what Charles Simic, talking about James Tate, said, quoting Charles Mingus talking about Ornette Coleman: "He does everything wrong, but it sounds right." Here's hoping that Tate goes on doing wrong for a good long while yet.