I was really upset when I read that James Tate died this week. I saw the news while I was at work, and it made it so that the last thing I wanted to do was work. I texted my husband something like, “I just want to read his poems and think about life.” So, that’s what I did for awhile.
A therapist of mine first introduced me to James Tate. She said, “I think you’ll like him.” And I did. And I loved that therapist. I moved away from her and now only occasionally write her emails. But, for some reason, only when things are good. So, it’s been awhile. James Tate’s passing made me think of her. And of how rare to have someone who knows you well.
The other thing I did after reading James Tate poems and thinking about life for awhile–I wrote a poem. I haven’t been writing much lately. Probably for the same reason that I haven’t been sending emails to my old therapist. There just doesn’t seem to be much to say. Much to feel excited about or grateful for. But of course there is. There always is. And James Tate’s poems remind me of that.