If this book is a reliable guide to James Tate’s first nine books of poetry…

It seems that for about the first 100 poems of Tate’s career as a published writer he could bear to more or less make himself understood. Then he started writing things like “I take the long walk up the staircase to my secret room. / Today’s big news: they found Amelia Earhart’s shoe, size 9. / 1992: Charlie Christian is bebopping at Minton’s in 1941. / Today, the Presidential primaries have failed us once again.” Had someone described this stuff, the bulk of Tate’s work to date, to me, I would have smiled wryly and pointed out that that is the kind of thing I like even when no one else does.

But Tate’s writing feels too obstinate when he un-reins himself for me to enjoy it much. Some of that may be the sheer volume of poetry he’s written and the quickness with which zig-zags are layered on top of each other in each piece; taken one or two lines at a time, he reminds me of many authors I like, all of whom regularly weather accusations that their work is meaningless.

Hell, taken a few words at a time he amazes me; I had trouble convincing myself that books called Riven Doggeries and Viper Jazz and Worshipful Company Of Fletchers could possibly contain anything but brilliance. But this middle Tate, the Tate of about 1971 to 1997, has defeated me. I do imagine I’m missing out on something; if all of Tate’s difficult poems were actually meaningless he would have to be a full-fledged graphomaniac and he’s obviously not. I just find them impenetrable in a way that even Finnegans Wake isn’t.

I bothered finishing the book on the strength of those early poems, though, which among other things got me through a difficult family vacation without any mental bruises. Most of the selections from The Oblivion Ha-Ha (his second book, and see what I meant about the titles?) reveal him as a kind of interpersonal H.P. Lovecraft, hinting at emotions that defy direct description. Here’s “Shadowboxing”:

 Sometimes you almost get a punch in. Then you may go for days without even seeing him, or his presence may become a comfort for a while.  He says: I saw you scrambling last night on your knees and hands.  He says: How come you always want to be something else, how come you never take your life seriously?  And you say: Shut up! Isn't it enough I say I love you, I give you everything!  He moves across the room with his hand on his chin, and says: How great you are!  Come here, let me touch you, you say.  He comes closer. Come closer, you say. He comes closer. Then. Whack! And you start again, moving around and around the room, the room which grows larger and larger, darker and darker. The black moon.