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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.

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
Inspirational
Beautiful
Befall
Life
Speeding
Reads
Distant
Train
Window
Wants

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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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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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Death is a new office building filled with modern furniture, A wise thing, but which has no purpose for us.
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It is written in the Book of Usable Minutes That all things have their center in their dying.
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I tried each thing, only some were immortal and free.
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The summer demands and takes away too much. /But night, the reserved, the reticent, gives more than it takes
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Imagine a painter crucified by his subject!
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Not until it starts to stink does the inevitable happen.
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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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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 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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We are prisoners of the world's demented sink. The soft enchantments of our years of innocence Are harvested by accredited experience Our fondest memories soon turn to poison And only oblivion remains in season.
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Somewhere someone is traveling furiously toward you, At incredible speed, traveling day and night.
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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
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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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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'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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Things can harden meaningfully in the moment of indecision
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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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Where then shall hope and fear their objects find?
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