by John Ashbery
with Ida, who seemed to be their leader.
Roll back this pokey late-morning sense of being extra,
she was begged. Bring us all to your birch tree.
XVII
After a few rounds of this the leader fell silent.
Well, what did you want me to do,
arrest the perpetrators?
What would we have seen?
Ida and the rest imaged the tambourine. They were never to start.
In fact as they got older, wasps reminded them continually
of their delicate condition; they never amounted to much
and were called up for screening. Well sir, sure as your nose
heads north, an’ they were caught out in the singing sands
a hundred miles from home. And decimated.
You see the mouse was in between the papers.
There was a limit to what any fool could do.
Our faces were wiped clean, we wept for the goodness
that is earth, and in autumn comes to fondle us
with new, rich, more mature colors, just as the sun is going down
and down and down for the last time. Night did not recognize us
or our claims, but the night season is good
for all and sundry, to children especially, and plays a game without brains.
In the utopian schemes there was nothing left. Some resolutions
perhaps? Maybe a little freedom for play? That was all right,
but time was up, which was the same as if there was no way,
no bemused situation to chortle at, no lava
on the red earth’s rim, which is running down to meet the land and the sea
in a way that deviates. O say is there any more,
truly? Can we have something? No, the machinery is ugly and preserved in dust.
There were no two ways to have it. All came undone
from Brigitte’s shorts, and this was supposed to be the way home,
even. But not anything mattered any more, not even to the shirts
some children wore then, out of sight until the last tide destroys us.
The envy of the age sweeps over us, tidying us into pits of darkness
that men shall understand, and forgive their promises
to those who had forgotten them, lauding all future dust-storms
as long as the king will stay alive on the road.
Bird-feeders introduced a new element of sashaying
nobody picked up on, and the direction all were taking was done to death
most slovenly. Where the girls’ shorts
had been, only a minus sign stood.
So the bad angels went away, and other creatures returned.
XVIII
Did you read that book I was telling you about? Ach, it concerns puberty.
Do you suffer, child? That is fundamentally inaccurate.
Your talents are warehoused now. In another time they would spring forth
with the red beacons of spring, prepared to do battle with rocks.
In a tenderer meridian
their phalanxes would cripple the overseers, bonk.
The guides would unleash their elastic trains.
So much sorrow, yet quite a lot of laughter. “I say,
Does the train run on Sundays?” We, quite a lot of us, were mired east of here
and could feel the valley’s separateness and shortcomings. When it came time to repeat
the scene, Dennis was numb with fear.
His velvet tread was steadfast on the stair. The fall had occurred
to someone nice this time, tatters of milk on the stone.
Preserve us all from horseradish
but if the saints won’t let us in, blast us
into nether pandemonium, for that will be where their compacted truths hibernate.
See, they need to have a story line. Sexy. So it appears.
The seven colors are remanded. We should have put aside our differences.
We are refracted. They never learn to drive.
They never slide much
these days,
what with the cartwheel hats, and all the underachievers.
It’s a big scare. The Lollipop Mountains are an entertainment mogul.
She said. But—
they are under orders. When the balls came on Fred was over with the bears. He started.
They all did waiting for something coherent to happen.
Then it was all over.
The ball-juice had expired
in the lobby, as though something were promised me that came out like an anteater,
poked around, went back in.
Slush and feathers. The hippo trod on a pine needle, they all sank back into relief.
Everywhere we go is something to eat
and fat disappointment, tears in the rain. Somebody is coming over the radio.
A lull.
XIX
He complicated everything by dying. He wouldn’t hear
of it. Fate was two valleys away. Wind slithered over the sandbar. Two women caught the train
from the new town. More elaborate buildings betokened sly adjustments
in the retinue of the living, underground. Aphasia leaked,
a sprinkle of diamond confetti, over confused lands and places,
the places we had ignored when we went through them the last time
when you were there for me.
I pointed the ladder to the ceiling.
It seemed we could join there.
The pre-Columbian bats were in ferment, just at that period.
The ladder shrinks in living water
whereas in your time the fiction we would otherwise be without
stays and stays and finally comes to seem permanent,
all along. It was almost twenty to six,
they churred. Slim weasels stirred behind the chink,
the oxymoron got his rocks off, there was hell to pay, but pay it they did,
after which the streets absorbed the laughter and lust that had been the morning
as Pamela was at last captured.
XX
A virtual rout ensued. Tell me, can you tell it any
different where you come from? I know the highlights are blurred
now, the witnesses less than forthcoming,
but fences are down, and we can travel where it was never supposed
anyone could go, to highlands of the spirit that refresh and punish
the blame we were supposed to ingest, until they leave that off, too.
A ton of regret is supplied and it never needs any replenishing,
as long as we citizens still stomp the earth, favor it with our occasional
attention and pull up stakes each night. But I’m not too sure what boils at the center of the earth.
I’ll go along with what you say. We must isolate the moment
from its comperes, look behind it,
and if possible draw the appropriate conclusions from its appearance of unease
while the nurses are still on the grounds. The fat clock ticks. It’s time to repair
to the orchard, or just to repair.
When it was all over, a sheep emerged from inside the house.
A cheer went up, for it was recognized that these are lousy times
to be living in, yet we do live in them:
We are the case.
And seven times seven ages later it would still be the truth in appearances,
festive, eternal, misconstrued. Does anyone still want to play?
It was only inevitable, after all,
what shoes they could muster. So they made bold. Prudence won the spelling bee with “cotoneaster.”
Harry wanted to believe. Prodding succeeds. So does popularity. Pierre thought it might too.
Lochinvar believed. All systems became taut. This is only what they did do.
They danced, and became meaningful to each other. It was cosmic time
,
tasting of grit. If this is a mutual admiration society,
why not? We were, after all, going to pull our town out of the encampment. The proud similarities
twinkle. Coming back to our doorstep, it was in the vegetables’ vocabulary
and nobody had noticed. Nobody, that is, except Swann.
Anyway, it overshoots the mark, as a log a waterfall.
Each gemstone blooms out of corruption, and somebody knows it.
But if that is the case, who knows it? Bookcases wouldn’t give you the time of day.
Time wasted in beehives is about right. And extraneous moraines,
coming from the kitchen to be all over the map of the United States,
and Canada, whose states are affectionately known as “provinces.”
Aye, to be brought up in the provinces equals an old Dodge or De Soto,
and who is coming back to get us, after all? Looks lonesome,
I mean. Where’s the energy needed to strike?
Come, it’s silver, children, the unbearable letdown
has gone under the hill to bide its time. Centuries shall pass away this way.
When we wake up it will be over. The motor will have started up,
and peas have been planted in Wyoming. Time grabs us
again, it’s terrible, for a little while. And then it becomes more and more like this
in its way. Then time broke off
discussions, they were shunted to Sheboygan, some mystery wolf came to the appointment
instead, there were further negotiations, a child lay dying, there was more other
to be sad over, the whistle charged doom, its impact
was tremendous, light exploded all over the football field, the nails were there,
pus of the sun, brooding, help, it looks more doctrinaire, than we can handle, I mean,
and goes on and on, not just changing in the fire
from the attic bathroom. Kids came over, it wasn’t right to put the blame on anyone,
can you see, it should have gotten by all right, but it didn’t, that’s what “hopeless”
is all about, where I come from, oh you shan’t, shall you, shut up, the dish, over
what I am doing is all broke out, the cattails
again, more underwear, trees implored, then lunch, for crying out loud,
and more of the same, ideal limits, a good spanking. Call your jewels up, it seems the only way.
Who am I to be horsing around? You are someone. Rats. A tan umbrella
coasted.
Weary, the dogs broke off the game.
It was just dandy where you were standing.
It was like everywhere. It was just average.
XXI
When more and more people come to you, you know
what they are saying, and you know how to deal with them.
Many were the whiskers that applied that day,
and many the salvage operations bent on rejecting them.
If you have some ointment it would be good to use it
now. Otherwise the opportunity may never again present itself.
I know you mean well, Hopeful murmured. Talkative was
starting to tell one of his stories again, and smiling,
Hopeful silently abetted it. He knew the old boy was feeling his oats,
which was fine with him, as he too was feeling good. Talkative, you old so-
and-so, he volunteered. Then his father-in-law blew up. The Overall Boys, fishing poles in hand,
charged into nether regions.
Susie never thought she’d see the day when so much surplus was at stake,
and she alone, outdoors, waiting for the postman’s red bicycle
for what seemed like ages. He explained that it was a routine assassination,
that that was what had delayed him. Crestfallen, Susie hardly dared look up
into the eyes of her man, a breeze was blowing, it was snowing. The droplets made diagonal streaks in the air
where pterodactyls had been. It was time for an exodus of sorts;
Paul picked up the legend
where it had been broken off: “No
blame accrues to those who were left behind, unless, haply, they were climbing
the wall to get a better view of the stars, in which case the next-to-last
must pay a tribute, and so on. It can be anything, old money,
a calico scarf, whatever has soiled the hand of the donor by staying
to wear out its welcome. O in time it will shrivel.
What is it to imagine something you had forgotten once, is it
inventing, or more of a restoration from ancient mounds that were probably there?
You that can tell all, tell this.”
At first Talkative was reluctant to speak, then the words fell
like spring rain from his lips, all was as it had been before,
with no two dancers in step, and a bright, really bright light exploded
above the barn. A horse wanders away
and is abruptly inducted into the carousel,
eyes flying, mane askew. There is no end to the dance,
even death pales in comparison, and at the same time we are forced to
take into account the likelihood of the moment’s behaving badly, the eventual cost
to our side in terms of dignity, compromised integrity. Twelve princesses
stepped ashore, no one knew them, they too seemed not to know where they were.
“In what region …” one began timidly, then the whole flock took off
like a shout, leaving the beleaguered ground to fend for itself.
“There were picture books at that time,
and dreams woven in and out of them. But one was not to notice,
only to go on behaving. And at the end, when everything was added up,
we probably owed them a penny. It’s enough to make you weep.
But skies are gilded and armored, we shall put a brave face
“on it for a time, then school will be over, and sublime rest
flow from the uncorked flask like a prodigious perfume,
or sleep, a potent but dangerous brew,
a new assignment. Then we can get out of hock,
redeem Daddy’s dear old coupons.” He broke off, not wanting to bestir
the others, who had in fact ceased to hear, so monotonous
was the noise of his voice, like rain that flails the spears of vetch
in Maytime, to reap a tiny investment.
So we faced the new day,
like a pilgrim who sees the end of his journey deferred forever.
Who could predict where we would be led, to what
extremes of aloneness? Yet the horizon is civil.
A struggle ensued and the driver fell out of the vehicle.
And what did the old lady do then?
“She gave them some broth, without any bread, and … and …”
All are like soup.
So if it pleases you to come
out we all await thy pleasure, Stuart Hofnagel.
Who was with Young Topless? It seemed then an abyss was forming,
a new set of lagoons. More than look past it
one cannot, for more
than that is denied us.
So have I heard it said in old kingdoms, it said.
Larkspur towering over miniature turrets. The bandoleer was shot to hell.
The spa looked closed. So,
if you are in the market for a steeple, I commend this one
rigorously. It was not given to human divination to exhume it
like the comet, but to pause briefly, the blind
man’s praise will cook itself. A giant paw
over the moon. Melons bloomed in corners. Shrimp blew away
to be fecund elsewhere, next year.
In time it will be your caesura too, but we mustn’t
think of that. We caregivers especially. We mu
st forget,
while others only live, peer into circles of living embroidery. The geese
will jump for you again, anon. Then it’s no business. They closed
the place, the food court, they all
have gone away, it’s restless, and mighty, as an ark
to the storm, yet the letter
of the law is obeyed, and sometimes the spirit
in forgotten tales of the seekers—O who were they?
Mary Ann, and Jimmy—no, but who were they?
Who have as their mantles on the snow
and we shall never reach land
before dark, yet who knows what advises them,
discreet in the mayhem? And then it’s bright in the defining pallor of their day.
Does this clinch anything? We were cautioned once, told not to venture out—
yet I’d offer this much, this leaf, to thee.
Somewhere, darkness churns and answers are riveting,
taking on a fresh look, a twist. A carousel is burning.
The wide avenue smiles.
About the Author
John Ashbery was born in 1927 in Rochester, New York, and grew up on a farm near Lake Ontario. He studied English at Harvard and at Columbia, and along with his friends Frank O’Hara and Kenneth Koch, he became a leading voice in what came to be called the New York School of poets. Ashbery’s poetry collection Some Trees was selected by W. H. Auden as the winner of the Yale Series of Younger Poets prize in 1955—the first of over twenty-five critically admired works Ashbery has published in a career spanning more than six decades. His book Self-Portrait in a Convex Mirror (1975) received the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry, the National Book Critics Circle Award, and the National Book Award, and since then Ashbery has been the recipient of a MacArthur Fellowship, a National Humanities Medal, the Ruth Lilly Poetry Prize, and a Gold Medal for Poetry from the American Academy of Arts and Letters, among other honors.
For years, Ashbery taught creative writing at Brooklyn College and Bard College in New York, working with students and codirecting MFA programs while continuing to write and publish award-winning collections of poetry—all marked by his signature philosophical wit, ardent honesty, and polyphonic explorations of modern language. His most recent book of poems is Quick Question, published in 2012. He lives in New York.
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