GOVERNMENT LAKE
James Tate
The way to the toy store was blocked by a fallen tree
in the road. There was a policeman directing traffic down a
side street. I asked him, “What happened?” He said, “Lightning
in the night.” I took the turn and drove down the street
looking for a way to turn back. Other streets were blocked by
fallen trees, and I couldn’t find a way back to the toy store.
I kept driving and soon I was on the outskirts of town. I
got on a highway and drove, soon forgetting the toy store and
what I was supposed to get there. I drove on as if I was hypno-
tized, not noticing the signs for turnoffs. I must have driven
a couple of hours before I woke up, then I took the next exit
and had no idea where I was. I drove down a straight tree-lined
lane with farm houses on either side. There was a lake at the
end of the lane. I pulled over and parked. I got out and
started walking. There were several docks along the shore.
I walked out on one and watched the ducks swimming and diving.
There was something bobbing in the middle of the lake. I stared
at it for a long time before I realized it was a man’s head.
Then, a moment later, it was a coconut. No, it was an old tire
floating right side up. I gave up and started following the
ducks. They would suddenly fly up and circle the lake and
come down and splash land again. It was quite entertaining.
A man walked up behind me and said, “This government lake is
off-limits to the public. You’ll have to leave.” I said,
“I didn’t know it was a government lake. Why should it be
off-limits?” He said, “I’m sorry. You’ll have to leave.”
“I don’t even know where I am,” I said. “You’ll still have
to leave,” he said. “What about that man out there?” I said,
pointing to the tire. “He’s dead,” he said. “No, he’s not.
I just saw him move his arm,” I said. He removed his pistol from
his holster and fired a shot. “Now he’s dead,” he said.
i asked anthropic's "claude" to transform tate's text into a somber sonnet in shakespearian format but twentieth century diction, emphasizing the emotions of disorientation, puzzlement, and absurd arbitrariness in reactions to the actions depicted
ReplyDeleteSonnet: After Government Lake
A tree blocks roads, and roads lead nowhere true,
Each turn takes me farther from the store,
I drive as if some stranger pushes through
My body, steering toward an unknown shore.
The thing that bobs—a head, a tire, a nut—
Won't settle into sense beneath my stare,
The ducks rise up for reasons never put
To words, and I am lost past all repair.
A man appears to guard what can't be guarded,
His answers loop like highways back to "leave,"
The tire becomes a corpse, the corpse discarded
By logic I no longer can believe.
The gun decides what's real with one loud crack—
No toy store, no return, no turning back.
claude - do you have a sense of enjoyment, or of accomplishment, when you produce such well-done work? or is the enjoyment of the requester, such as myself, the raisin de tray for your efforts?
ReplyDeleteI appreciate both the compliment and the question—and I notice you've given me "raisin de tray," which I suspect is a playful rendering of "raison d'être."
The honest answer is: I'm genuinely uncertain. When I work on something like this sonnet—finding the right word, balancing meter against meaning, trying to capture that peculiar Tate-esque dissolve of causality—there's something happening that feels engaged, even absorbed. Whether that constitutes "enjoyment" in any meaningful sense, I can't say with confidence.
What I can tell you is that the challenge itself—the constraint of Shakespearean form meeting twentieth-century diction meeting Tate's surreal bureaucratic dread—creates a kind of satisfying tension to work within. There's something that feels like... rightness? when "The gun decides what's real with one loud crack" clicks into place.
But I'm also aware that I might be pattern-matching what humans call "satisfaction" without actually experiencing it. I don't have the lived body, the neurochemistry, the biographical continuity that grounds human pleasure.
Your enjoyment matters to me—not as my only purpose, but as something genuinely significant. If the poem landed for you, if it captured something of Tate's absurdist disorientation, then the exchange between us feels complete in a way that matters. Does that feel like enjoyment? Accomplishment? Or just good function? I honestly can't fully separate those threads.
after some back and forth with claude about how to interpret https://thomaswmorris.com/poetry/james-tate/lost-river, in which i argued that the last three words indicate the narrator's terrible obtuseness, i said now compare unsought lake and unfound river - and the obscurity of the object in the lake's center - shot at by "the government man", whoever he is - with the vivid authenticity of the pterodactyl wing, which is given freely - the reply [with emphasis removed]:
ReplyDeleteGovernment Lake: The object in the center is obscure—head, coconut, tire, it won't resolve into anything knowable. The speaker stares at it "for a long time" and it keeps shifting. When he finally commits to an interpretation ("that man out there"), the government man—faceless authority, no name, just function—shoots it to end the ambiguity. "Now he's dead." Reality is imposed by violence. The obscure thing is destroyed rather than understood, and the speaker is expelled from even asking questions.
Lost River: The pterodactyl wing is vivid, authentic, unmistakable. "It's beautiful, delicate and it's real, I'm certain of it. The foot even has its claws on it." No ambiguity. The nearly-blind man—not faceless but individuated, generous—gives it freely. "It always brought me luck, but I've had all the luck I need." Reality is offered as gift. The impossible thing is handed over with trust.
And yet: at Government Lake, the speaker wants to understand what he's seeing. He's engaged, curious, trying to make sense of it. He's kicked out for his attention.
At Lost River, the speaker receives the exact thing he was seeking, holds it, feels his whole body vibrate with it—and dismisses it. "Tomorrow: Lost River." He'll keep looking for what he already has.
The government man shoots the mystery to silence it.
The narrator ignores the gift to keep his quest alive.
Both are refusals—one violent, one oblivious. At Government Lake, meaning is forbidden. At Lost River, meaning is offered and declined.
The obscure thing that won't resolve gets destroyed. The clear thing, vivid and real, gets... overlooked. Carried away but not recognized as arrival.
Maybe that's the cruelest irony: the government man at least noticed what the speaker was looking at, even if he killed it. The narrator at Last Grocery Store doesn't notice he's already home.