I have reason to know something about James Tate, because David Keplinger featured his poem, "Stray Animals" in April as part of his ongoing meditation series. But I must not have delved into his work beyond that. Because I'm sure I would remember it. I would remember the quirkiness. His poems, unlike other irreverent or surreal or absurdist poems I've read, didn't feel like they were trying to impress me with their strangeness. They surprised and delighted me. Thought-provoking and even inspiring. It's like my imagination on its best day is an anemic shut-in doodling in the dust compared to what he has going on in this book.
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