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Punctilious abyss, the yawn of space Come once a day to suffocate the sight.

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
Space
Come
Punctilious
Suffocate
Yawn
Abyss
Twilight
Sight

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Antiquity breached mortality with myths. Narcissus is vocabulary. Hermes decorates A cornice on the Third National Bank.
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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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But in our age the appeal to authority is weak, and I am of my age.
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The Spring I seek is in a new face only.
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Experience means conflict, our natures being what they are, and conflict means drama.
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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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Genetic theories, I gather, have been cherished academically with detachment.
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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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Last night I fled until I came To streets where leaking casements dripped Stale lamplight from the corpse of flame A nervous window bled.
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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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Yevgeny Yevtushenko is a ham actor, not a poet.
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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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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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I have felt darkness lead me by the hand Over the hill to greet the singing dawn.
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Let us begin to understand the argument. There is a solution to everything: Science.
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And I have seen long fingers that would stare With fiery eyes, and then the eyes would crawl Deftly across the counterpane and fall Soundless, with a wink of mild despair.
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Let us lie down once more by the breathing side Of Ocean, where our live forefathers sleep As if the Known Sea still were a month wide-- Atlantis howls but is no longer steep!
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Men expect too much, do too little, Put the contraption before the accomplishment, Lack skill of the interior mind To fashion dignity with shapes of air. Luxury, yes but not elegance!
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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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