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World Poetry Translation Project


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More Later, Less The Same

by James Tate

The common is unusually calm--they captured the storm
last night, it's sleeping in the stockade, relieved
of its duty, pacified, tamed, a pussycat.
But not before it tied the flagpole in knots,
and not before it alarmed the firemen out of their pants.
Now it's really calm, almost too calm, as though
anything could happen, and it would be a first.
It could be the worst thing that ever happened.
All the little rodents are sitting up and counting
their nuts. What if nothing ever happened again?
Would there be enough to "eke out an existence,"
as they say? I wish "they" were here now, kicking
up a little dust, mussing my hair, taunting me
with weird syllogisms. Instead, these are the windless,
halcyon days. The lull dispassion is upon us.
Serenity has triumphed in its mindless, atrophied way.
A school of Stoics walks by, eager, in its phlegmatic way,
to observe human degradation, lust and debauchery
at close quarters. They are disappointed,
but it barely shows on their faces. They are late Stoa,
very late. They missed the bus. They should have
been here last night. The joint was jumping.
But people change, they grow up, they fly around.
It's the same old story, but I don't remember it.
It's a tale of gore and glory, but we had to leave.
It could have turned out differently, and it did.
I feel much the same way about the city of Pompeii.
A police officer with a poodle cut squirts his gun
at me for saying that, and it's still just barely
possible that I didn't, and the clock is running
out on his sort of behavior. I'm napping in a wigwam
as I write this, near Amity Street, which is buried
under fifteen feet of ashes and cinders and rocks.
Moss and a certain herblike creature are beginning to
whisper nearby. I am beside myself, peering down,
senselessly, since, for us, in space, there is
neither above nor below; and thus the expression
"He is being nibbled to death by ducks" shines
with such style, such poise, and reserve,
a beautiful, puissant form and a lucid thought.
To which I reply "It is time we had our teeth examined
by a dentist." So said James the Lesser to James the More.


American Review | www.PaperLyon.com | McGill Live Radio | Publish
 

  Translations for this Poem
 English  Spanish  French  Italian
 Portuguese  Korean  Russian  Chinese
 Japanese      
 

  Poems by James Tate
  1. A Knock On The Door
  2. Goodtime Jesus
  3. Happy As The Day Is Long
  4. Like A Scarf
  5. More Later Less The Same
  6. My Great Great Etc Uncle Patrick Henry
  7. Never Again The Same
  8. Shut Up And Eat Your Toad
  9. Success Comes To Cow Creek
  10. The List Of Famous Hats
  11. The Lost Pilot
  12. The Wrong Way Home
  13. Thinking Ahead To Possible Options And
 
ABCDEFGHIJKLMNOPRSTVWY[ALL] 
  Jack Gilbert 
  Jack Kerouac 
  Jack Prelutsky 
  Jack Spicer 
  James A. Emanuel 
  James Schuyler 
  James Tate 
  James Wright 
  Jane Kenyon 
  Jean Cocteau 
  Jean Toomer 
  Jim Carroll 
  John Betjeman 
  John Clare 
  John Donne 
  John Dryden 
  John Keats 
  John Masefield 
  John Milton 
  John Wilmot 
  Jon Anderson 
  Jonathan Swift 
  Jorge Luis Borges 
  Jorie Graham 
  Joseph Brodsky 
  Joseph Warton 
  Judy Grahn 

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