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

More quotes by John Ashbery

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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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The sun fades like the spreading Of a peacock's tail, as though twilight Might be read as a warning to those desperate For easy solutions.
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What is the past, what is it all for? A mental sandwich?
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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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Expecting rain, the profile of a day Wears its soul like a hat.
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Imagine a painter crucified by his subject!
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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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Silly girls your heads full of boys
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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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A perfect example of the new republic's urge to drape itself with the togas of classical respectability.
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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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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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The poem is sad because it wants to be yours, and cannot be.
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To the poet as a basement quilt, but perhaps To some reader a latticework of regrets.
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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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I tried each thing, only some were immortal and free.
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The winter does what it can for its children.
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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 summer demands and takes away too much. /But night, the reserved, the reticent, gives more than it takes
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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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