Quote

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.

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
Sex
Lakes
Scruples
Therefore
Worn
Expeditions
Boys
Fishing
Blond
Morning
Horizon
Highway
Unimpeded
Great
Fishes
Highways
Conundrums
Things
Boat
Grab
Impermanent
Like
Rivers
Swing
Expedition
Sea
Swings
Veiled

More quotes by John Ashbery

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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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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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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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The summer demands and takes away too much. /But night, the reserved, the reticent, gives more than it takes
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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 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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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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I like poems you can tack all over with a hammer and there are no hollow places.
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The winter does what it can for its children.
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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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Death is a new office building filled with modern furniture, A wise thing, but which has no purpose for us.
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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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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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Things can harden meaningfully in the moment of indecision
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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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Silly girls your heads full of boys
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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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And just as there are no words for the surface, that is, No words to say what it really is, that it is not Superficial but a visible core, then there is No way out of the problem of pathos vs. experience.
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I tried each thing, only some were immortal and free.
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