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Somewhere someone is traveling furiously toward you, At incredible speed, traveling day and night.

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
Speed
Somewhere
Toward
Night
Someone
Life
Furiously
Traveling
Incredible

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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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The gray glaze of the past attacks all know-how...
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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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A perfect example of the new republic's urge to drape itself with the togas of classical respectability.
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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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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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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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... 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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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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Things can harden meaningfully in the moment of indecision
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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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Silly girls your heads full of boys
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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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Not until it starts to stink does the inevitable happen.
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Expecting rain, the profile of a day Wears its soul like a hat.
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