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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
Experience
Problem
Really
Pathos
Way
Superficial
Visible
Core
Surface
Words
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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 winter does what it can for its children.
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The poem is sad because it wants to be yours, and cannot be.
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The gray glaze of the past attacks all know-how...
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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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Things can harden meaningfully in the moment of indecision
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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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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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Not until it starts to stink does the inevitable happen.
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Expecting rain, the profile of a day Wears its soul like a hat.
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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 ellipse is as aimless as that, Stretching invisibly into the future so as to reappear In our present. Its flexing is its account, Return to the point of no return.
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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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Where then shall hope and fear their objects find?
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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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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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Somewhere someone is traveling furiously toward you, At incredible speed, traveling day and night.
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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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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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You stupefied me. We waxed, Carnivores, late and alight In the beaded winter. All was ominous, luminous.
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