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

Allen Tate

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Allen Tate
Age: 79 †
Born: 1899
Born: November 19
Died: 1979
Died: February 9
Author
Literary Critic
Poet
University Teacher
Writer
Winchester
Kentucky
John Orley Allen Tate
Form
Subdued
May
Coherence
Kind
Indicate
Logical
Dramatic
Criticism
Speak
Experience

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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.
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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.
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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.
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But in our age the appeal to authority is weak, and I am of my age.
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Religion is the sole technique for the validating of values.
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At twelve I was determined to shoot only For honor at twenty not to shoot at all I know at thirty-three that one must shoot As often as one gets the rare chance - In killing there is more than commentary.
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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.
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Genetic theories, I gather, have been cherished academically with detachment.
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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.
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Yevgeny Yevtushenko is a ham actor, not a poet.
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There is a calm for you where men and women Unroll the chill precision of moving feet.
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So face with calm that heritage And earn contempt before the age.
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In the cold morning the rested street stands up To greet the clerk who saunters down the world.
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All the sea-gods are dead. You, Venus, come home To your salt maidenhead.
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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.
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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.
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What is the poem, after it is written? That is the question. Not where it came from or why.
Allen Tate
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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.
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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.
Allen Tate
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Death's long anabasis.
Allen Tate