I find myself getting into a groove sometimes when I’m reading the poetry of James Tate. This particular poetry collection was Return to the City of White Donkeys, from 2005, and again he constantly surprised me with the twists and turns that inhabited his work. As I read poem after poem of his, I found myself expecting just about anything to happen. He could be writing something approaching a fable, or a mundane modern story that suddenly takes an enormous leap, or animals could be conversing, aliens landing, plagues breaking out, the police rapping at the door, a character could be having an out-of-body experience, a person could be finding or losing his love, or you just might not have a clue to what is actually going on. One should never assume that Tate was happy with entirely changing everything around just once in a poem, more change could easily be found in the very next line.

My Tate groove is that anything and everything could be sitting there, waiting for me. Reading a book of his writings carries over and loosens up how I think, approach things, write, and even dream. He breaks up the standard linear and routine way of seeing things, and his poetry rekindles the unique and the unexpected. Again, Tate reaffirmed that the joy and power of literature and its ability to reach people is a truly amazing thing. ( )

A fine collection, in this case of mostly short prose poems, with this poet's trademark wit and impish humor. There's enough darkness to be real without being threatening. Tate is a wonderful poet. ( )