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Not until it starts to stink does the inevitable happen.

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
Stink
Starts
Inevitable
Events
Happen
Happens
Doe
Inevitability

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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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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 mind Is so hospitable, taking in everything Like boarders, and you don't see until It's all over how little there was to learn Once the stench of knowledge has dissipated.
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To the poet as a basement quilt, but perhaps To some reader a latticework of regrets.
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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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Where then shall hope and fear their objects find?
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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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Things can harden meaningfully in the moment of indecision
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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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Imagine a painter crucified by his subject!
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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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I like poems you can tack all over with a hammer and there are no hollow places.
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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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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 sun fades like the spreading Of a peacock's tail, as though twilight Might be read as a warning to those desperate For easy solutions.
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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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