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Its a bit mad. Too bad, I mean, that getting to know each just for a fleeting second Must be replaced by unperfect knowledge of the featureless whole Like some pocket history of the world, so general As to constitute a sob or wail
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
Must
Mad
Mean
General
Featureless
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Second
Wail
World
Bits
Constitute
Getting
Pocket
Knowledge
Fleeting
History
Replaced
Whole
Pockets
More quotes by John Ashbery
The poem is sad because it wants to be yours, and cannot be.
John Ashbery
In the increasingly convincing darkness The words become palpable, like a fruit That is too beautiful to eat.
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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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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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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.
John Ashbery
All beauty, resonance, integrity, Exist by deprivation or logic Of strange position.
John Ashbery
The summer demands and takes away too much. /But night, the reserved, the reticent, gives more than it takes
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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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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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Sometimes a musical phrase would perfectly sum up The mood of a moment. One of those lovelorn sonatas For wind instruments was riding past on a solemn white horse. Everybody wondered who the new arrival was.
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The soul establishes itself. But how far can it swim out through the eyes And still return safely to its nest?
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Silly girls your heads full of boys
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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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A perfect example of the new republic's urge to drape itself with the togas of classical respectability.
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... the first step of the terrible journey toward feeling somebody should act, that ends in utter confusion and hopelessness, east of the sun and west of the moon.
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Expecting rain, the profile of a day Wears its soul like a hat.
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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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I tried each thing, only some were immortal and free.
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Somewhere someone is traveling furiously toward you, At incredible speed, traveling day and night.
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Reading is a pleasure, but to finish reading, to come to the blank space at the end, is also a pleasure.
John Ashbery