Allen Tate
Allen Tate
John Orley Allen Tate, known professionally as Allen Tate, was an American poet, essayist, social commentator, and Poet Laureate from 1943 to 1944...
NationalityAmerican
ProfessionPoet
Date of Birth19 November 1899
CountryUnited States of America
men way poet
Poets, in their way, are practical men; they are interested in results.
ham actors poet
Yevgeny Yevtushenko is a ham actor, not a poet.
talking knowing poet
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.
poetry bankers mysterious
Poets are mysterious, but a poet when all is said is not much more mysterious than a banker.
experience criticism may
Dramatic experience is not logical; it may be subdued to the kind of coherence that we indicate when we speak, in criticism, of form.
war fighting winning
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....
truth science argument
Let us begin to understand the argument. There is a solution to everything: Science.
waste drains intellect
For intellect is a mansion where waste is without drain....
vocabulary mortality hermes
Antiquity breached mortality with myths. Narcissus is vocabulary. Hermes decorates A cornice on the Third National Bank.
fashion men skills
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!
christian self expression
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.
wind names yield
Row after row with strict impunity The headstones yield their names to the element, The wind whirrs without recollection....
hands darkness singing
I have felt darkness lead me by the hand Over the hill to greet the singing dawn....
dark rocks cry
I thought I heard the dark pounding its head On a rock, crying: Who are the dead?