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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
Tell
Poet
Makes
Watches
Great
Poetry
Trying
Watch
Deal
Certified
Deals
Nuts
Start
Notion
Sense
Extraordinary

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Silly girls your heads full of boys
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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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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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Extreme patience and persistence are required, Yet everybody succeeds at this before being handed The surprise box lunch of the rest of his life.
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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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Things can harden meaningfully in the moment of indecision
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To the poet as a basement quilt, but perhaps To some reader a latticework of regrets.
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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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The poem is sad because it wants to be yours, and cannot be.
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All beauty, resonance, integrity, Exist by deprivation or logic Of strange position.
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Imagine a painter crucified by his subject!
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Until, accustomed to disappointments, you can let yourself rule and be ruled by these strings or emanations that connect everything together, you haven't fully exorcised the demon of doubt that sets you in motion like a rocking horse that cannot stop rocking.
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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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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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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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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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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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What is the past, what is it all for? A mental sandwich?
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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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