Allen Tate Quotes

Genetic theories I gather have been cherished academically with detachment.

Punctilious abyss the yawn of space Come once a day to suffocate the sight.

But in our age the appeal to authority is weak and I am of my age.

What is the flesh and blood compounded ofBut a few moments in the life of time?This prowling of the cells litigious love Wears the long claw of flesh-arguing crime.

Peering I heard the hooves come down the hill. The posse passed twelve horse; the leader's face Was worn as limestone on an ancient sill.

Antiquity breached mortality with myths. Narcissus is vocabulary. Hermes decorates A cornice on the Third National Bank.

Dark accurate plunger down the successive knell Of arch on arch where ogives burst a red Reverberance of hail upon the dead Thunder like an exploding crucible!

Men expect too much do too little Put the contraption before the accomplishment Lack skill of the interior mind To fashion dignity with shapes of air. Luxury yes but not elegance!

How does one happen to write a poem: where does it come from? That is the question asked by the psychologists or the geneticists of poetry.

Let us lie down once more by the breathing side Of Ocean where our live forefathers sleep As if the Known Sea still were a month wide-- Atlantis howls but is no longer steep!

Culture is the study of perfection and the constant effort to achieve it.

Yevgeny Yevtushenko is a ham actor not a poet.

Let us begin to understand the argument. There is a solution to everything: Science.

Swimmer of noonday lean for the perfect dive To the dead Mother's face whose subtile down You had not seen take amber light alive.

There's precious little to say between day and dark Perhaps a few words on the implacable will Of time sailing like a magic barque Or something as fine for the amenities....

Ah Christ I love you rings to the wild sky And I must think a little of the past: When I was ten I told a stinking lie That got a black boy whipped....

Last night I fled until I came To streets where leaking casements dripped Stale lamplight from the corpse of flame; A nervous window bled.

William Blake cursed the flesh for a clod Yet of some of his sayings we Moderns have heard tell: 'The nakedness of woman is the work of God' Or that title--The Marriage of Heaven and Hell.

The twilight is long fingers and black hair.

I am not ridiculing verbal mechanisms dreams or repressions as origins of poetry; all three of them and more besides may have a great deal to do with it.

The torrent of the reaching shade Broke shadow into all its parts What then had been of shadow made Found exigence in fits and starts....

The dreary flies lazy and casual Stick to the ceiling buzz along the wall. O heart the spider shuffles from the mould Weaving between the pinks and grapes his pall.

The idiot greens the meadow with his eyes The meadow creeps implacable and still; A dog barks the hammock swings he lies. One two three the cows bulge on the hill.

Good manners Madam are had these days not For your asking nor mine nor what-we-used-to-be's. The day is a loud grenade that bursts a smile Of serious weeds in a comic lily plot....

Struck in the wet mire Four thousand leagues from the ninth buried city I thought of Troy what we had built her for.

I had kept opaque Down deeper than the canyons undersea The sullen spectrum of a buried lake Nobody saw; not seen even by me....

My darling boy whom I shall never know My son I love you in my deepest fears....

Poets are mysterious but a poet when all is said is not much more mysterious than a banker.

Poets in their way are practical men; they are interested in results.

Walk in this faithless grass with studious tread Lest mice weasels germane beasts too soon The tall hat and eyes the fierce feet for dead Descry and fix you prone in their revelling moon.

The mission for the day is to encourage students to think beyond traditional career opportunities prepare for future careers and entrance into the workplace.

So face with calm that heritage And earn contempt before the age.

There is a calm for you where men and women Unroll the chill precision of moving feet.

So the dubbed conceit Played nursery of cheat To clear the I of sleet....

For often at Church I've seen the stained high glass Pour out the Virgin and Saints twist and untwist The mortal youth of Christ astride an ass.

In the cold morning the rested street stands up To greet the clerk who saunters down the world.

Dramatic experience is not logical; it may be subdued to the kind of coherence that we indicate when we speak in criticism of form.

All the sea-gods are dead. You Venus come home To your salt maidenhead....

Other psychological theories say a good deal about compensation.

Serious poetry deals with the fundamental conflicts that cannot be logically resolved: we can state the conflicts rationally but reason does not relieve us of them.

Venus knows country matters: country knows Venus: For Love Dione's boy was born on the farm.

And I have seen long fingers that would stare With fiery eyes and then the eyes would crawl Deftly across the counterpane and fall Soundless with a wink of mild despair.

Therefore with idle hands and head I sit In late December before the fire's daze Punished by crimes of which I would be quit.

The only real evidence that any critic may bring before his gaze is the finished poem.

I thought I heard the dark pounding its head On a rock crying: Who are the dead?

The dusk runs down the lane driven like hail; Far off a precise whistle is escheat To the dark; and then the towering weak and pale....

We are afraid that we have not lived. We are not afraid of dying.

I have felt darkness lead me by the hand Over the hill to greet the singing dawn....

For intellect is a mansion where waste is without drain....

Experience means conflict our natures being what they are and conflict means drama.

I believe the term modulation denotes in music the uninterrupted shift from one key to another: I do not know the term for change of rhythm without change of measure.

Our loss put six feet under ground Is measured by the magnolia's root; Our gain's the intellectual sound Of death's feet round a weedy tomb.

Death's long anabasis.

The poet is he who fights on the passionate Side and whoever loses he wins; when he Is defeated it is hard to say who wins....

Men expect too much do too little.

What was I saying? An Egyptian king Once touched long fingers which are not anything.

Row after row with strict impunity The headstones yield their names to the element The wind whirrs without recollection....

Men cannot live forever But they must die forever....

There is probably nothing wrong with art for art's sake if we take the phrase seriously and not take it to mean the kind of poetry written in England forty years ago.

The Spring I seek is in a new face only.

we know our end A packet of worm-seed a garden of spent tissues.

But we shall not know the world by looking at it; we know it by looking at the hovering fly.

A poem may be an instance of morality of social conditions of psychological history; it may instance all its qualities but never one of them alone nor any two or three; never less than all.

The innocent mansion of a panther's heart!

What is the poem after it is written? That is the question. Not where it came from or why.

The day's at end and there's nowhere to go Draw to the fire even this fire is dying; Get up and once again politely lying Invite the ladies toward the mistletoe....

In a manner of speaking the poem is its own knower neither poet nor reader knowing anything that the poem says apart from the words of the poem.

I say that what one loves is best: The midnight fastness of the heart.

We know the particular poem not what it says that we can restate.

Religion is the sole technique for the validating of values.