Quote

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

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
Deeper
Opaque
Saws
Canyons
Nobody
Sullen
Seen
Lake
Even
Spectrum
Lakes
Buried
Kept
Undersea

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So the dubbed conceit Played nursery of cheat To clear the I of sleet.
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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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So the poet, who wants to be something that he cannot be, and is a failure in plain life, makes up fictitious versions of his predicament that are interesting even to other persons because nobody is a perfect automobile salesman.
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I say that what one loves is best: The midnight fastness of the heart.
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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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We know the particular poem, not what it says that we can restate.
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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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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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The mission for the day is to encourage students to think beyond traditional career opportunities, prepare for future careers and entrance into the workplace.
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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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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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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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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.
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Now remember courage, go to the door,Open it and see whether coiled on the bedOr cringing by the wall, a savage beastMaybe with golden hair, with deep eyesLike a bearded spider on a sunlit floorWill snarl-and man can never be alone.
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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 in our age the appeal to authority is weak, and I am of my age.
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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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Antiquity breached mortality with myths. Narcissus is vocabulary. Hermes decorates A cornice on the Third National Bank.
Allen Tate
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My darling boy whom I shall never know, My son, I love you in my deepest fears.
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