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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.

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
Superficial
Visible
Core
Surface
Words
Experience
Problem
Really
Pathos

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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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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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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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Its a bit mad. Too bad, I mean, that getting to know each just for a fleeting second Must be replaced by unperfect knowledge of the featureless whole Like some pocket history of the world, so general As to constitute a sob or wail
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I tried each thing, only some were immortal and free.
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Where then shall hope and fear their objects find?
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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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Once a happy old man One can never change the core of things, and light burns you the harder for it.
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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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It is written in the Book of Usable Minutes That all things have their center in their dying.
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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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To the poet as a basement quilt, but perhaps To some reader a latticework of regrets.
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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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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 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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What is the past, what is it all for? A mental sandwich?
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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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