Poetry

Collected Poems, 1919-1976 by Allen Tate

By Allen Tate

One of many early-twentieth century Southern intellectuals and artists of the early 20th century referred to as the Agrarians, Allen Tate wrote poetry that used to be rooted strongly in that region's past—in the land, the folks, and the traditions of the yankee South in addition to within the kinds and issues of the vintage poets. In "Ode to the accomplice Dead"— commonly famous as his maximum poem—he delineates either the horror of the sight of rows of tombstones at a accomplice cemetery and the consideration that such sacrifice embodies, leading to "a masterpiece that can no longer be transcended" (William Pratt).

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33 ANGELA ADÓN1CA H o y me he tendido ju n to a una jo ven pura com o a la orilla de un océano blanco, com o en el cen tro de una ardiente estrella de len to espacio. D e su mirada largamente verde la luz caía como un agua seca, en transparentes y profundos círculos de fresca fuerza. Su pecho como un fuego de dos llamas ardía en dos regiones levantado, y en doble río llegaba a sus pies grandes y claros. U n clima de oro maduraba apenas las diurnas longitudes de su cuerpo llenándolo de frutas extendidas y oculto fuego.

The furniture travels filled w ith his silent being like little ships inside the oíd ship, laden w ith his vague and evanescent being: the wardrobes, the green covers o f the tables, the color o f the curtains and of the floor, everything has suffered the slow emptiness of his hands, and his breath has worn things out. H e glides and slides, descends, transparent, air within the coid air that courses through the ship, w ith hidden hands he leans above the railings w atching the bitter sea as it flees behind the ship.

Sucede que me canso de ser hombre. Sin embargo sería delicioso asustar a un notario con un lirio cortado o dar muerte a una monja con un golpe de oreja. Sería bello ir por las calles con un cu ch illo verde y dando gritos hasta m orir de fr ío . N o quiero seguir siendo raíz en las tinieblas, vacilante, extendido, tiritando de sueño, hacia abajo, en las tripas mojadas de la tierra, absorbiendo y pensando, comiendo cada día. N o quiero para mi tantas desgracias, N o quiero continuar de raíz y de tumba, de subterráneo solo, de bodega con muertos, aterido, muriéndome de pena.

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