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Death is a new office building filled with modern furniture, A wise thing, but which has no purpose for us.
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
Purpose
Death
Thing
Furniture
Filled
Office
Building
Wise
Modern
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Silly girls your heads full of boys
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The gray glaze of the past attacks all know-how...
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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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Expecting rain, the profile of a day Wears its soul like a hat.
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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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In the increasingly convincing darkness The words become palpable, like a fruit That is too beautiful to eat.
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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'm heading for a clean-named place like Wisconsin, and mad as a jack-o'-lantern, will get there without help and nosy proclivities.
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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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I tried each thing, only some were immortal and free.
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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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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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To the poet as a basement quilt, but perhaps To some reader a latticework of regrets.
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What is the past, what is it all for? A mental sandwich?
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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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A perfect example of the new republic's urge to drape itself with the togas of classical respectability.
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Not until it starts to stink does the inevitable happen.
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Where then shall hope and fear their objects find?
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Therefore bivouac we On this great, blond highway, unimpeded by Veiled scruples, worn conundrums. Morning is Impermanent. Grab sex things, swing up Over the horizon like a boy On a fishing expedition.
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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.
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