Biography of Kenneth Allott
an Anglo-Irish poet and academic, and authority on Matthew Arnold.
He was born on August 29, 1912, in Glamorganshire, South Wales.
He went on to graduate with first class honors from the University of Durham; receiving his Batcheloe of Literature from St. Edmund Hall, Oxford.
His career was spent as an educator; first as a tutor in adult education programs at the University of Liverpool, England. he then furthered his career and became a Professor of Modern English Literature.
Allot was also editor and author of introduction of an edition of Graham Greene's Brighton Rock, 1968. Author of play "The Publican's Story," produced in 1953. Work represented in anthologies, including Poems of Our Time, 1900-60, published by Dent, 1959; The Thirties Poets/(which was a work concentrating on 9 significant Poets of the 1930's in total; they being: W.H. Auden, Stephen Spender, Louis MacNeice, C. Day Lewis, Geoffrey Grigson, Kenneth Allot, Bernard Spencer, David Gascoyne and Dylan Thomas, this work was published by Penguin, 1964; and /I Burn for England. He contributed to periodicals over many years. during 1936 to 1939 he was the Assistant editor of the periodical New Verse.
Kenneth Allot died in May 1973
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Kenneth Allott Poems
I take you looking at the statue the smile is yours and the stone is you the stone is simple and the smile is playful the smile is stolen and the stone is fallen
Our Trojan world is polarised to mourn; To dream and find a black spot on the sun, And wake to love and find our lover gone.
Aunt Sally Speaks
Who have been educated out of naive responses, The hoodoo of love, the cinderella of class Knowing that everywhere man has the same clock face, the same moody defences
I offer you my forests and my street-cries With hands of double-patience under the clock, The antiseptic arguments and lies Uttered before the flood, the submerged rock.
Our Trojan world is polarised to mourn;
To dream and find a black spot on the sun,
And wake to love and find our lover gone.
The destination of any weapon is grief.
In homesteads now where joy must seem naive
Under a splitting sky our women conceive.
The towns of houses, massed security