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

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
Felt
Greet
Hands
Hill
Hills
Dawn
Lead
Singing
Darkness
Hand

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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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Death's long anabasis.
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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.
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So the dubbed conceit Played nursery of cheat To clear the I of sleet.
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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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But we shall not know the world by looking at it we know it by looking at the hovering fly.
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Poets are mysterious, but a poet when all is said is not much more mysterious than a banker.
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Experience means conflict, our natures being what they are, and conflict means drama.
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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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But in our age the appeal to authority is weak, and I am of my age.
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POET If not in a place, where are the People weeping? LIBERAL They creep weeping in the face, not place. POET Is it something with which we may cope The weeping, the creeping, the peepee-ing, the peeping?
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Struck in the wet mire Four thousand leagues from the ninth buried city I thought of Troy, what we had built her for.
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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.
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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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Men cannot live forever But they must die forever.
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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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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.
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Row after row with strict impunity The headstones yield their names to the element, The wind whirrs without recollection.
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Poets, in their way, are practical men they are interested in results.
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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.
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