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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
Doe
Children
Winter

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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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In the increasingly convincing darkness The words become palpable, like a fruit That is too beautiful to eat.
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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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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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Poetry comes to me out of thin air or out of my unconscious mind. It's sort of the way dreams come to us and the way that we get knowledge from them, through television, old movies, which I watch a lot of. Lines of dialogue suddenly seem to be part of a poem.
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There is the view that poetry should improve your life. I think people confuse it with the Salvation Army.
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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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... 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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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 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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Not until it starts to stink does the inevitable happen.
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Somewhere someone is traveling furiously toward you, At incredible speed, traveling day and night.
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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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Silly girls your heads full of boys
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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 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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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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Therefore bivouac we On this great, blond highway, unimpeded by Veiled scruples, worn conundrums. Morning is Impermanent. Grab sex things, swing up Over the horizon like a boy On a fishing expedition.
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