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Silly girls your heads full of boys

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
Heads
Silly
Girls
Boys
Full
Girl

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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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... 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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Death is a new office building filled with modern furniture, A wise thing, but which has no purpose for us.
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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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The winter does what it can for its children.
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The gray glaze of the past attacks all know-how...
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Not until it starts to stink does the inevitable happen.
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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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In the increasingly convincing darkness The words become palpable, like a fruit That is too beautiful to eat.
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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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Where then shall hope and fear their objects find?
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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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The summer demands and takes away too much. /But night, the reserved, the reticent, gives more than it takes
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