Quote

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.

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
Running
Hail
Like
Precise
Sunset
Pale
Towering
Runs
Whistle
Driven
Lane
Weak
Dusk
Dark
Lanes

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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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So the dubbed conceit Played nursery of cheat To clear the I of sleet.
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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.
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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.
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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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We are afraid that we have not lived. We are not afraid of dying.
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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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For some reason most critics have a hard time fixing their minds directly under their noses, and before they see the object that is there they use a telescope upon the horizon to see where it came from.
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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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But in our age the appeal to authority is weak, and I am of my age.
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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.
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What was I saying? An Egyptian king Once touched long fingers, which are not anything.
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Other psychological theories say a good deal about compensation.
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What is the poem, after it is written? That is the question. Not where it came from or why.
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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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All the sea-gods are dead. You, Venus, come home To your salt maidenhead.
Allen Tate
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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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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.
Allen Tate
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we know our end A packet of worm-seed, a garden of spent tissues.
Allen Tate