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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
Life
Furiously
Traveling
Incredible
Speed
Somewhere
Toward
Night
Someone

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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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The gray glaze of the past attacks all know-how...
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Imagine a painter crucified by his subject!
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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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Expecting rain, the profile of a day Wears its soul like a hat.
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I tried each thing, only some were immortal and free.
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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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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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To the poet as a basement quilt, but perhaps To some reader a latticework of regrets.
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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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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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In the increasingly convincing darkness The words become palpable, like a fruit That is too beautiful to eat.
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Poetry comes to me out of thin air or out of my unconscious mind. It's sort of the way dreams come to us and the way that we get knowledge from them, through television, old movies, which I watch a lot of. Lines of dialogue suddenly seem to be part of a poem.
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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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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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It is written in the Book of Usable Minutes That all things have their center in their dying.
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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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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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