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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.

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
Poetry
Side
Loses
Fights
Sides
Wins
Winning
Defeated
Fighting
Whoever
War
Passionate
Hard
Poet

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The twilight is long fingers and black hair.
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Men cannot live forever But they must die forever.
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Experience means conflict, our natures being what they are, and conflict means drama.
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Men expect too much, do too little.
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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.
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For intellect is a mansion where waste is without drain.
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According to its doctors, my one intransigent desire is to have been a Confederate general, and because I could not or would not become anything else, I set up for poet and beg an to invent fictions about the personal ambitions that my society has no use for.
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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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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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I thought I heard the dark pounding its head On a rock, crying: Who are the dead?
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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!
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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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In an age of abstract experience, fornication Is self-expression, adjunct to Christian euphoria, And whores become delinquents delinquents, patients Patients, wards of society. Whores, by that rule, Are precious.
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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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But in our age the appeal to authority is weak, and I am of my age.
Allen Tate
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My darling boy whom I shall never know, My son, I love you in my deepest fears.
Allen Tate
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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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Poets, in their way, are practical men they are interested in results.
Allen Tate
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But we shall not know the world by looking at it we know it by looking at the hovering fly.
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The Spring I seek is in a new face only.
Allen Tate