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The summer demands and takes away too much. /But night, the reserved, the reticent, gives more than it takes
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
Gives
Takes
Away
Night
Reticent
Giving
Reserved
Demands
Much
Summer
Demand
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The ellipse is as aimless as that, Stretching invisibly into the future so as to reappear In our present. Its flexing is its account, Return to the point of no return.
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Part of the strength of Pollock and Rothko's art, in fact, is this doubt as to whether art may be there at all.
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I listen to music a great deal. In a way, it's trying to express things that can't be expressed in words. That's something that interests me, too. Even though I use words to express myself, I am trying to, it seems to me, get beyond that.
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Death is a new office building filled with modern furniture, A wise thing, but which has no purpose for us.
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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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I like poems you can tack all over with a hammer and there are no hollow places.
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I tried each thing, only some were immortal and free.
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And the way Though discontinuous, and intermittent, sometimes Not heard of for years at a time, did, Nonetheless, move up, although, to his surprise It was inside the house, And always getting narrower.
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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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Some certified nut Will try to tell you it's poetry, (It's extraordinary, it makes a great deal of sense) But watch out or he'll start with some New notion or other.
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You stupefied me. We waxed, Carnivores, late and alight In the beaded winter. All was ominous, luminous.
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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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Expecting rain, the profile of a day Wears its soul like a hat.
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The winter does what it can for its children.
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The gray glaze of the past attacks all know-how...
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Imagine a painter crucified by his subject!
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The sun fades like the spreading Of a peacock's tail, as though twilight Might be read as a warning to those desperate For easy solutions.
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Things can harden meaningfully in the moment of indecision
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To the poet as a basement quilt, but perhaps To some reader a latticework of regrets.
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Just keep playing, mastering as you do the step Into disorder this one meant. Don't you see It's all we can do? Meanwhile, great fires Arise, as of haystacks aflame. The dial has been set And that's ominous, but all your graciousness in living Conspires with it, now that this is our home: A place to be from, and have people ask about.
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