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The winter does what it can for its children.

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
Winter
Doe
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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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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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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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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The summer demands and takes away too much. /But night, the reserved, the reticent, gives more than it takes
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All beauty, resonance, integrity, Exist by deprivation or logic Of strange position.
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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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Imagine a painter crucified by his subject!
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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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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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It is written in the Book of Usable Minutes That all things have their center in their dying.
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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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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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A perfect example of the new republic's urge to drape itself with the togas of classical respectability.
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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 gray glaze of the past attacks all know-how...
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Silly girls your heads full of boys
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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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