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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
Incredible
Speed
Somewhere
Toward
Night
Someone
Life
Furiously
Traveling
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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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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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Where then shall hope and fear their objects find?
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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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A perfect example of the new republic's urge to drape itself with the togas of classical respectability.
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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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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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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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Imagine a painter crucified by his subject!
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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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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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Silly girls your heads full of boys
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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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Not until it starts to stink does the inevitable happen.
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