Chinese Whispers: Poems

by John Ashbery

  Out of that longing we built a paean.

  Now everyone who crosses this bridge is wiser.

  It doesn’t tilt much.

  Look, the shore is arriving laterally.

  Some people literally think they know a lot,

  gets ’em in trouble, we must rake out

  cafés looking for rats and exploded babies.

  There was one too many last week.

  I don’t know if you’re coding.

  The cop pulled us over

  in a shawl. Why do you want to go around me

  when there are other circulars

  to be had for the looking?

  I never thought about being grounded forever.

  This is Mademoiselle. Take your hat off.

  There’s no need, I was here last Thursday.

  All the best creatures are thwarted

  for their pains. He removed my chains deftly,

  processed my passport with gunk.

  Now two times five geese fly across

  the crescent moon, it is time to get down to

  facts, in the tiny park.

  There were priests posing as nuns,

  quinces and stuff.

  Tilt me a little more to the sun,

  I want to see it one last time. There,

  that’s just fine. I’ve seen it.

  You can roll me inside. On wings of what perturbation?

  He came for the julep.

  He was gone in an instant.

  We cry too much over

  drowned dogs.

  He came in last week too.

  Said he knew you or somebody else.

  It’s the pain just of replying

  that makes so many of them take up different lines.

  Too many goods—we are spoiled indeed.

  Had we learned to subsist on less

  the changing of the world might be different,

  earth come to greet us. I say, the chairs have grown back.

  The couple sat in the dish drainer

  pondering an uncertain future.

  The kitchen had never looked bleaker

  except for two chinchillas near the stove, a beaker

  of mulled claret, shaving soap smelling

  so fresh and new, like smoke, almost.

  He says leave it here,

  that he comes here.

  OK harness the DeSoto,

  we’ll have other plans

  for newness, for a renewing, kind of—

  picnics in the individual cells

  so no one falls asleep for it, dreams

  she is a viola, instrument of care, of sorts.

  You should have seen him when we got back.

  He was absolutely wild. Hadn’t wanted us to go

  to the picture show. But in a way it was all over,

  we were back, the harm had been done.

  Gradually he came to realize this

  over a period of many years, spanning

  two world wars and a major depression.

  After that it was time to get up and go,

  but who had the get up and go? A child’s

  party, painted paper hats, bowlfuls of lemonade,

  no more at the lemonade stand, it sold out.

  That was cheerful. A man came right up behind you,

  he had two tickets to the door.

  We need starve no more

  but religion is elastic too—

  might want some at some future date—

  if so you’ll find it here.

  We have to hurry in now,

  hurry away, it’s the same thing

  she said as rain came and stole the king.

  UNDER CELLOPHANE

  None of it helped much,

  not even my beloved Philosophy,

  sitting dejected, hands in her lap,

  moving her head slowly from side to side.

  “You naughty, wicked boy ...”

  But I cherished you last night ...

  It makes no difference, night is like that—

  different, odd. The gains we rack up

  dissipate in cold daylight, random

  to the touch. Look how the faint green

  of the willow shudders. Last night it was another story,

  some kind of bird was singing.

  I have this warble in my head

  yet can’t get out of my long johns ...

  And if it was over, from side to side, rocking

  as a distraught mother rocks her cradle

  mindless of the screaming babe,

  and if it all comes to this, what good are we to others

  when we do descend the stair?

  Lamplight and this and that, caring

  out of one end of the tube, with the other hand

  fastening the necklace clasp—

  Oh you had some fine times too,

  morning like pasteboard reflecting the light

  at the dancing houses, and

  a world wondering, opening like a bud.

  You remember I was locked in a closet

  and when someone came to let me out,

  said, what is this lovely garden,

  but where is the even lovelier one I was just in?

  So all things come to bust:

  the Joshua trees piling ever higher

  their grief under the conservatory’s blank panes,

  the way you look tonight,

  the way you spun your tires

  in the wet gutter, on gravel, in the sand.

  And take this last piece of medicine:

  You were found with the rest of your litter

  dying or dead. Only you showed

  some appropriate curiosity

  that’s gone now to fan the flames

  of scholarly ethics, and that’s just about all we’re about.

  REMINISCENCES OF NORMA

  Knowledgeably, she is knowledgeable about many things—

  the stars in their errant orbits, a bud

  sliding over a hibiscus, a cloud like a frown

  on the face of a teddy bear. And then, more stuff.

  The inquisitors were endlessly patient, amused—

  you had to be, in that business.

  And if they liked your answer, you were free.

  It didn’t have to be true. Streamers, party favors,

  confetti—all were yours.

  I know now why some have seen the sun sink

  and it fed their hunger, they came on unabated.

  Is it my lord’s pleasure to mate?

  In that case we have pogo sticks of different sizes and colors.

  But he may just go away

  thinking it enough for that day.

  Bicycle came barreling through the sleet—

  OBSIDIAN HOUSE

  The fruits are ripe, dipped in fire, cooked and tested here on earth.

  —Hölderlin, translated by Richard Sieburth

  as was proven

  when they entered the house

  in which the priest was,

  moping and sincere

  like all exegetes. Zeppelin

  hovered o’er him, bushes fancied him,

  but it was to be let down on earth

  they all embraced singing.

  Further, one was sure

  one had come to pass,

  yet no slovenly proof was

  ever forwarded.

  The lines swayed

  backwards and forth,

  housewives queuing up for lamb chops

  and all that this rhythm implies

  excoriated

  from above.

  The tourist metastasizes his position.

  These palms are lucky being within us

  no matter what the tyrant truth says.

  All along my childhood’s wall

  I hoped (was hoping) for this occlusion

  but not passionately.

  A cheerful emotion hatched,

  soon population o’erran the land.

  We de
scended gently toward boats

  to hear the boatswain’s

  song, sung from the capstan, about how life intrudes

  on the plodding waves

  and no one is certain of desiccation

  as a great marrow bone is gnawed.

  It is as though a feast had happened

  in plain sight. We forgot about the

  treasure, forgot it had happened

  among the madness of whirling wheat.

  OH EVENINGS

  The man standing there, the other stranger,

  slips easily into the background

  as though stopping were the last thing on his mind.

  Another, lacking the courage of his convictions,

  went mad from drinking seawater. That was an absolute rout.

  Oh evenings! Learning where to look it up

  became an end in itself. To this purpose

  trained fleas were engaged to do sums.

  Ants on their way to happiness paused

  over the numbers: Did it seem like three

  or was it just three? Is this where I came in?

  More likely we all need to be blessed for the hole

  in his savage argument. Surely, passing through town,

  we contributed a little to the regional economy,

  received credit for showing our faces.

  So what if the only theater in town

  had been turned into a funeral parlor?

  There are few things more theatrical than death,

  one supposes, though one doesn’t know.

  Which brings me to my original argument.

  Ah, what was the argument? Keeping our places,

  assuming no more credit than what is due

  our tame luster, our positive shine. Then people will go out

  into the city, spreading germs, living like it was last year.

  INTRICATE FASTING

  This little bridge

  three of them

  blasted a recess in the rock

  hoovered the mountains

  played with a squirrel called Scrawny

  (hangnail on the forefinger of Death)

  a hundred yards from my home

  what home you haven’t got a home

  I do so have a home

  Mottled later the pattern recedes

  into my marvelous life

  Hey how are you life

  never been better

  that’s good

  ’cause I want you to take care of yourself

  understand

  Yeah I understand

  Aw for the love of Pete

  The pattern’s got on mushrooms now

  on the clothes of aborigines on magnets

  They are sending a boat for you a

  private launch

  Tired of feeding the muskrats in this shithole

  getting ready to tidy up and go

  leave this wooden structure that doesn’t love me

  Wait there are one or two small items to regulate

  before you can go

  I repeat I want my life out of here

  dissolved in memory

  Bring on the aromatherapy

  boys there’s a job to get done

  Me always in the middle

  me whining

  me probably not such a nice person after all

  me on the stadium

  me persiflating in the dire blue strait

  me up to my ankles in woe

  me rejoicing in the realization of my perfectibility

  Loggerheads come on down

  They’re waiting for you

  in the cabin

  this way please,

  And that should be about right—

  ALONE, I

  know of him. I don’t want

  to speak of him. He’s brilliant.

  His underwear is radiant.

  The Davis Cup

  came apart in his hands. A seasoned jester.

  A basket case. Mother brought the children.

  We all survived tennis.

  The gale picked up.

  Buildings waved in it, and the tentacles

  of a giant squid, seeking a memento

  lost some years ago near the Donner Pass.

  Seriously, I want my memento back!

  The cabin cruisers of morning

  edge tentatively closer—

  why, it’s all a sham!

  Prince Charming’s dropping cigarette ash

  on topiary chessmen. The ugly sisters are uncertain.

  Cinderella is out. Period. Gargoyles are in great demand,

  but if so, why say so? You’ll come back, with childhood lusting

  after evil groceries, and more of them to take care of.

  Youth is wasted on the old.

  Like I said, the days, these days, come calibrated.

  WINTER DAYDREAMS

  On the boulevard I passed a giant squid.

  It manifested but a puny interest in me

  or its surroundings, though one suction cup

  thoughtfully grazed a ring of spikes around a boulevard tree

  like a monocle one puts down absentmindedly

  on the page of a newspaper and words like

  worker ants quickly spring into action:

  “It was not the FIRST TIME THE accused has been so solicited.

  By his OWN ADMISsion four other rumpuses were given rise to

  after that first YEar ...”

  I was almost home then, by subterfuge or sheer pluck.

  In the underbrush a walrus crows,

  all decency shed, or shredded.

  Little wonder that home is a bright place to be

  if living’s your thing.

  RUNWAY

  We crawled out of the car

  into the rest stop. Lady Baltimore cake

  was served by Madame du Barry look-alikes.

  “Don’t hurry, Mr. Executioner,” one chirped,

  pressing the unwanted crumbs against my lips.

  “It’ll all be over in a second,” she added encouragingly.

  Red Skelton asked me if I had a book coming out. He seemed drowned

  in lists of trivia and itching-powder dreams—

  the kind that make you wake up

  and then sort of fall back into sleep again.

  His brother was cleaning up after the elephants. He

  wore a crisp white uniform. Could have been a soda jerk,

  or just a jerk. My scented glove offends

  the daintiest among them, for they have no recourse

  but cries of old London—an exhaustive repertory,

  one first thought, but soon its coda reared—

  a clutch of mordant shrieks.

  I supposed it was the witching hour.

  Nothing unusual happened. Soon we were leaving home

  forever, to be pitched about on storm-tossed seas,

  flagrant to be back amid multiple directions. For though there are some

  who can live without compasses, it dissolves all complexity

  if one is perpetually in the know. Sleep, directions—that’s all

  I need at my chaste fireside, to take in the sights,

  just as the wind starts and darkness longs

  to take us down a peg.

  RANDOM JOTTINGS OF AN OLD MAN

  Like a fool, I let him into my house,

  and he began dropping jottings everywhere.

  Where once crepe-paper flowers had been,

  jottings overflowed the basin into the water closet.

  Urban affairs had kept him—

  something about a rendezvous with kelp. “Hurry,

  the paths of nature are creeping

  to the corrugated tooth. And it’s a blitz of old stars,

  tonight!” Something in me leaned into the vacant doorframe.

  It was a still life of bottles and a jar

  that once had held cold cream. We mustn’t wait here

  for him, that’s what he
wants, and

  if we do so he’ll want to eat us.

  No more us to be with in the morning,

  among the cups and shards. No more sticky places on the railing.

  We held hands there too, once, for years, watching the

  palms move out into the harbor.

  The pianola never recovered from the loss.

  Today the air is bright again and fresh with pods.

  No mourners were sighted on the post road.

  He came down to us with relaxed meaning in his grin,

  cudgeled, cajoled us, told us breezy stories

  about a widow in the henhouse.

  After all regrets have been pocketed, the counter wiped clean

  of terrible fingerprints, assuredly one moves westward

  into sheepherding country. The ranchers won’t like it,

  but they’ll let us live, closer to dying

  than many insects are now, attracted by the chiming and gleams of the cash register.

  Other oaths, other options will follow

  in the wake of spring.

  Millions of mullions waken, gesticulate to us.

  HER CARDBOARD LOVER

  The way you look tonight

  is perishable, unphotographable, laughable. Sometimes

  dyslexia strikes in late middle age. You are

  the way I look tonight. At last

  my love has come along.

  And you are mine at last.

  Slowly the orchestra wives pick over the set,

  go behind a wall. The big smiley man is thinking,

  thinking he has an IDEA! Well, if he says so,

  You gotta believe him. One orchestra wife comes back.