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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.
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
Way
Heard
Intermittent
Always
Though
Narrower
Time
Getting
Nonetheless
Thinking
Moving
Thoughtful
House
Although
Ideas
Surprise
Sometimes
Move
Years
Inside
Discontinuous
More quotes by John Ashbery
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 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 winter does what it can for its children.
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... the first step of the terrible journey toward feeling somebody should act, that ends in utter confusion and hopelessness, east of the sun and west of the moon.
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I like poems you can tack all over with a hammer and there are no hollow places.
John Ashbery
The summer demands and takes away too much. /But night, the reserved, the reticent, gives more than it takes
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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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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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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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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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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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Not until it starts to stink does the inevitable happen.
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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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Expecting rain, the profile of a day Wears its soul like a hat.
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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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The poem is sad because it wants to be yours, and cannot be.
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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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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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Reading is a pleasure, but to finish reading, to come to the blank space at the end, is also a pleasure.
John Ashbery