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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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I tried each thing, only some were immortal and free.
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Imagine a painter crucified by his subject!
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The winter does what it can for its children.
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To the poet as a basement quilt, but perhaps To some reader a latticework of regrets.
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Things can harden meaningfully in the moment of indecision
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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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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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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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What is the past, what is it all for? A mental sandwich?
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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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Expecting rain, the profile of a day Wears its soul like a hat.
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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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Not until it starts to stink does the inevitable happen.
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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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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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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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Just keep playing, mastering as you do the step Into disorder this one meant. Don't you see It's all we can do? Meanwhile, great fires Arise, as of haystacks aflame. The dial has been set And that's ominous, but all your graciousness in living Conspires with it, now that this is our home: A place to be from, and have people ask about.
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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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