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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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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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What is the past, what is it all for? A mental sandwich?
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Expecting rain, the profile of a day Wears its soul like a hat.
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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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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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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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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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I like poems you can tack all over with a hammer and there are no hollow places.
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I'm heading for a clean-named place like Wisconsin, and mad as a jack-o'-lantern, will get there without help and nosy proclivities.
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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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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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All beauty, resonance, integrity, Exist by deprivation or logic Of strange position.
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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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Things can harden meaningfully in the moment of indecision
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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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The gray glaze of the past attacks all know-how...
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To the poet as a basement quilt, but perhaps To some reader a latticework of regrets.
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The winter does what it can for its children.
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Not until it starts to stink does the inevitable happen.
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