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I like poems you can tack all over with a hammer and there are no hollow places.
John Ashbery
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John Ashbery
Age: 90 †
Born: 1927
Born: July 28
Died: 2017
Died: September 3
Journalist
Poet
University Teacher
Writer
Rochester
New York
G'on Ashberi
John Ashberry
Jonas Barry
Jon Asshuberī
John Lawrence Ashbery
John Ashbery
Hollow
Poems
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Hammers
More quotes by John Ashbery
All beauty, resonance, integrity, Exist by deprivation or logic Of strange position.
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Extreme patience and persistence are required, Yet everybody succeeds at this before being handed The surprise box lunch of the rest of his life.
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Imagine a painter crucified by his subject!
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Silly girls your heads full of boys
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Things can harden meaningfully in the moment of indecision
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There is the view that poetry should improve your life. I think people confuse it with the Salvation Army.
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Until, accustomed to disappointments, you can let yourself rule and be ruled by these strings or emanations that connect everything together, you haven't fully exorcised the demon of doubt that sets you in motion like a rocking horse that cannot stop rocking.
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And just as there are no words for the surface, that is, No words to say what it really is, that it is not Superficial but a visible core, then there is No way out of the problem of pathos vs. experience.
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The winter does what it can for its children.
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Expecting rain, the profile of a day Wears its soul like a hat.
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The mind Is so hospitable, taking in everything Like boarders, and you don't see until It's all over how little there was to learn Once the stench of knowledge has dissipated.
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To the poet as a basement quilt, but perhaps To some reader a latticework of regrets.
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Life is beautiful. He who reads that As in the window of some distant, speeding train Knows what he wants, and what will befall.
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A perfect example of the new republic's urge to drape itself with the togas of classical respectability.
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Once a happy old man One can never change the core of things, and light burns you the harder for it.
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Not until it starts to stink does the inevitable happen.
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And we may be led, then, upward through more Powerful forms of poetry, past columns With peeling posters on them, to the country of indifference. Meanwhile if the swell diapasons, blooms Unhappily and too soon, the little people are nonetheless real.
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Life is not at all what you might think it to be A simple tale where each thing has its history It's much more than its scuffle and anything goes Both evil and good, subject to the same laws.
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In the increasingly convincing darkness The words become palpable, like a fruit That is too beautiful to eat.
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I don't look on poetry as closed works. I feel they're going on all the time in my head and I occasionally snip off a length.
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