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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.

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
Deal
Certified
Deals
Nuts
Start
Notion
Sense
Extraordinary
Tell
Poet
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More quotes by John Ashbery

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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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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 soul establishes itself. But how far can it swim out through the eyes And still return safely to its nest?
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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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The soul is not a soul, Has no secret, is small, and it fits Its hollow perfectly: its room, our moment of attention.
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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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Part of the strength of Pollock and Rothko's art, in fact, is this doubt as to whether art may be there at all.
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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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What is the past, what is it all for? A mental sandwich?
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Not until it starts to stink does the inevitable happen.
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I tried each thing, only some were immortal and free.
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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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Expecting rain, the profile of a day Wears its soul like a hat.
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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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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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The winter does what it can for its children.
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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 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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Where then shall hope and fear their objects find?
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