Can You Hear, Bird: Poems

by John Ashbery

  and the bookcase slides shut, as is customary on such occasions.

  At once a fragrance overwhelms him—not saffron, not lavender,

  but something in between. He thinks of cushions, like the one

  his uncle’s Boston bull terrier used to lie on watching him

  quizzically, pointed ear-tips folded over. And then the great rush

  is on. Not a single idea emerges from it. It’s enough

  to disgust you with thought. But then you remember something William James

  wrote in some book of his you never read—it was fine, it had the fineness,

  the powder of life dusted over it, by chance, of course, yet still looking

  for evidence of fingerprints. Someone had handled it

  even before he formulated it, though the thought was his and his alone.

  It’s fine, in summer, to visit the seashore.

  There are lots of little trips to be made.

  A grove of fledgling aspens welcomes the traveler. Nearby

  are the public toilets where weary pilgrims have carved

  their names and addresses, and perhaps messages as well,

  messages to the world, as they sat

  and thought about what they’d do after using the toilet

  and washing their hands at the sink, prior to stepping out

  into the open again. Had they been coaxed in by principles,

  and were their words philosophy, of however crude a sort?

  I confess I can move no farther along this train of thought—

  something’s blocking it. Something I’m

  not big enough to see over. Or maybe I’m frankly scared.

  What was the matter with how I acted before?

  But maybe I can come up with a compromise—I’ll let

  things be what they are, sort of. In the autumn I’ll put up jellies

  and preserves, against the winter cold and futility,

  and that will be a human thing, and intelligent as well.

  I won’t be embarrassed by my friends’ dumb remarks,

  or even my own, though admittedly that’s the hardest part,

  as when you are in a crowded theater and something you say

  riles the spectator in front of you, who doesn’t even like the idea

  of two people near him talking together. Well he’s

  got to be flushed out so the hunters can have a crack at him—

  this thing works both ways, you know. You can’t always

  be worrying about others and keeping track of yourself

  at the same time. That would be abusive, and about as much fun

  as attending the wedding of two people you don’t know.

  Still, there’s a lot of fun to be had in the gaps between ideas.

  That’s what they’re made for! Now I want you to go out there

  and enjoy yourself, and yes, enjoy your philosophy of life, too.

  They don’t come along every day. Look out! There’s a big one …

  Nice Morning Blues

  The promised “great getaway” turned out to be shorter

  than anyone could have foretold. It was,

  in its way, perfect. We looked down from a terrace

  to the sea. Beneath its surface was another terrace,

  and under that a different sea

  of a color hitherto unimagined. And beneath that, the old campus

  that had formerly stood there exhibited its perfection:

  mitered slabs of stone in pale, meatlike tones

  that put dentistry to shame.

  How was I to know, leaving the garage,

  that one of us would never meet the other again?

  Yet round after round of schnapps was served

  and that did seem to be a good thing.

  There was an enormous choice of tempting salads—

  And so it goes, visit followed visit

  in a distressed but pristine season.

  The crabapple blossoms were a deeper pink;

  girls wore them on their skirts. There was always more

  to do, with a promise of love in the evening.

  And yes, nothing came of it. Nothing produced nothing.

  We were saddest on the most luxurious perch,

  or so it seems. Then sadness wanders away

  like a child getting lost. What is there left to do?

  No Earthly Reason

  There are additional reasons having to do with security

  for why we cannot extend to you this funding

  unless you are prepared to keep an open mind,

  fondle your pet discreetly.

  “It has warm legs and a furry complexion,” you said.

  That’s just fine. I keep my hat screwed to my head.

  So, good. The pencil and pens in my pocket

  that some make fun of are as lemon verbena to my ears.

  If the tide-racked coasts rememorate it

  no great moment attaches to it

  (truth’s medicine ball by itself)

  but we want you to remain in this sanatorium,

  out of harm’s way, for at least a spell.

  I could think of no earthly reason to give him my dress,

  but I did it. He took it, walked off with it too.

  And now the palms in the government palace courtyard

  are busy filing their report. We’re in it too—

  about how many times I wash, how dreams come to me,

  what brand of athletic shoes I buy. It makes me angry,

  but my anger is as a doll is to a child:

  insignificant in comparison to myself,

  but occupying its secret corner anyway.

  It would be nice if it was very dark

  and only a little rent of light on the floor. I need your help.

  Offer me sweet unguents. I’ll tell you the same.

  But in the parlor many floors below

  the jury has already voted, using beans

  kept for this purpose in a large glass canister.

  We should know the verdict before long

  he says coming closer his breath a fuzz on the sleeper’s window.

  It would be nice if a vulture could have some of this meat

  but we have already tried justice in the streets.

  It doesn’t work. It would be better to run for your lives, and yet

  I always linger. Behind a tree. I capture a great big bonus.

  No Longer Very Clear

  It is true that I can no longer remember very well

  the time when we first began to know each other.

  However, I do remember very well

  the first time we met. You walked in sunlight,

  holding a daisy. You said, “Children make unreliable witnesses.”

  Now, so long after that time,

  I keep the spirit of it throbbing still.

  The ideas are still the same, and they expand

  to fill vast, antique cubes.

  My daughter was reading one just the other day.

  She said, “How like pellucid statues, Daddy. Or like a …

  an engine.”

  In this house of blues the cold creeps stealthily upon us.

  I do not dare to do what I fantasize doing.

  With time the blue congeals into roomlike purple

  that takes the shape of alcoves, landings …

  Everything is like something else.

  I should have waited before I learned this.

  Obedience School

  Let us leave the obedience school.

  The door is open. Outside the sun is shining.

  Why do you hesitate? Why do you hold back?

  If there were some warts on the obedience school

  we should have known about it before this.

  You don’t learn the cancan at obedience school.

  Yup. But the parkway night is festering.

  Besides, there are so many trained-dog acts now

  nobody wants a
ny competition.

  That’s why I bought Flossie the ticket

  back to Puyallup. Her ladies-in-waiting

  were flouting the scent of incense smoldering;

  her high heels provoked “zounds!” of acclaim

  from the wrong kind of gent-customer

  we want no truck with.

  And when the old school shudders

  in a sudden ray of March sun,

  accusers and behoovers alike will be believed;

  behemoths and mammoths struggle and give up

  in the aquarium dawn. Then a run on the feedstores

  ensues. Causes are given up for lost. The queen’s pony

  capers on its hind legs, quite as if narcissism

  were going out of style. Poor children! Why, it broke their heart,

  but Dad’s with them now. Dad can conquer this thing.

  Ode to John Keats

  From a dark land of figs

  and morello cherries and plum jam

  and lettered building blocks, the gold horn

  extends its welcome to red paper fish.

  The king has but one eye

  but it is as round

  as a dinner plate and sees

  what others haven’t the knack of,

  except sages. Bursts of something

  in midafternoon have flooded

  the treasuries, roofed the spires

  with stagnant dignity. One must

  carry out these orders, or die

  in the equation that links us.

  Waiting for a bus requires more stamina,

  or lurking under a weeping beech.

  Of a Particular Stranger

  My country is but scrubland,

  plaguey country. From its opposite shore

  I can see you sitting, surrounded by nursemaids

  and rolled umbrellas. O it’s not quitting

  on us, my dear, only making a marginal note.

  The time of tomes vast as valleys

  hasn’t approached us yet. Just wounded vets

  doing the desert shuffle, a can of sperm

  in one hand, a chilled beer in the other.

  And I, I walk into the wrong room,

  well-rounded, keeping my patience together.

  A bat flies out over the tarmac.

  We shouldn’t have wasted so much hesitancy

  on ourselves, it’s for others, makes ’em feel genuine

  and wanted. They start to like us,

  then they really like us, it’s too late

  for them to cancel. They start to forget us,

  then positively dislike us, as though we’d tampered

  with their mnemonic machinery. An angel in brocade

  witnesses this, copies it down.

  By afternoon’s end we were soaked

  in a thrilling downpour that promised much

  in the way of freshness, clamor. Writing, I

  overshot the page into the sandtrap

  of bucolic enthusiasm. You always rescue me

  from such occasions, bind me to my own quiddity

  and bookmarks. After all, there are a lot of books

  to be read, lots of pages in this warehouse.

  Operators Are Standing By

  In some of the stores they sell a cheese rinse

  for disturbed or depressed hair. You add whiskey

  to it at the last moment. Now that

  it’s nearly Christmas, we could buy

  such things, you and I, and take them with us,

  though it seems like

  only yesterday I hit that Halloween homerun.

  It backed up and kind of flowed back

  into my side I think, creating a “strawberry

  jar” effect. There was nothing Arvin

  or I could do about it.

  Determining everyone is a bigshot

  is sometimes all he cares about.

  I’ve slept on the ground with him,

  and deep in a birchbark canoe.

  Once there was two of him.

  At school no one could tell us apart

  until we smiled, or his big laugh came unbuttoned.

  Fatally, venery has taken its toll

  of him these last years. I can’t

  get near him without being reminded of Venus,

  or the hunt. I come in six different packages,

  from the “jewel case” to Wrigley’s spearmint.

  In the time of friendly moose

  droppings I followed them to the Shedd Aquarium.

  No one was selling tickets that day.

  I wandered in and out of the fish tanks,

  stopping occasionally to leave a handprint

  on the plate glass for the benefit of some fish or other.

  Others Shied Away

  The Autumn seems to cry for thee,

  Best lover of the Autumn-days!

  —SUSAN COOLIDGE

  And they have cooler armchairs.

  They have an imaginary tunnel down there.

  It can be the color of your choosing. With bridges, splayed

  so wide of the mark, you wonder how they thought of crossing.

  It can’t be over.

  I haven’t taken my final exam

  nor received the notice

  to do so. The halls for my oratory

  haven’t been built yet. They’ll be nice and new,

  with buff-colored dolphins dangling from the ceiling.

  The world will see something of my art in this,

  though I had nothing to do with the actual building, and turn away,

  admiring me and their clothes—so appropriate!

  How did we know how the moon was going to be today,

  what drinks to serve after driving fifty miles through parched savannas?

  Yet does it all come miraculously to life?

  Or is it the solitary crank who’s right,

  the unofficial historian? He never hazards an opinion,

  yet stays by the door like a porter, pose

  that fools no one. It seems none of us has begun to digest

  the meal of all our lives. There’s nothing left to do but count the rooms—

  nine, all told.

  I told you when I set out for

  the market town, the saddlebags would be full

  of gold and silver coinage, just for you;

  coffers would bulge, orchards

  overflow their walls with blue fruit.

  Every day would be a cocktail party, all day long.

  Now the tunnel seems withered.

  We must return to the sparse blessings

  that place our shoes on this winter path;

  nothing can stay outdoors all the time—

  there must be intervals for books and fire

  and endless conversation that means very little

  unless we’d prefer to have it some other way,

  little girl, blinking at the autumn’s rough practice,

  crude language, distemper—wound into a ball for you.

  Palindrome

  In the days of French film and infanticide

  and red flannel hash, words we kept for trading

  up, which were later lost, other lost words,

  angry at being snubbed for so many years,

  surrounded us like owls in a boathouse. “To whom

  are we indebted for the honorable occasion?” Words

  no dictionary ever knew, or acknowledged having known,

  like “spludge” or “parentitis.” But then, what can we do,

  there are so many, like zillions of bats

  emerging from a cave at sunset, feeling the cool air

  thread deliriously down their membranes. Yet they too

  can get us in trouble. And it’s fun to play along,

  ears cocked for no special din, until the thud

  of morning commences, and a child appears,

  etched on the air of my room.

  Penthesilea

  No more o
des, the good doctor said.

  Come in with something distressing. Aw,

  we said, the silted lakes are obedient already.

  That is to say, a run on cash at the banks

  that will never be mismatched or compensated.

  The nice person sat and drank tea. You know

  how it is when you find a café space

  that is yours ideally, that snakes eternally

  past a bit of ecstatic burnt blue from the street

  around the corner. A place where nettles lean enthusiastically

  like acrobats or stoats. O much as we

  love you you can’t come in.

  But I did something before I died,

  like bringing the wind into the house with the wood,

  making it sit far off over there, in the thin corner.

  The red furniture grew up.

  Suddenly it was the rush hour, and we were on our hands and knees

  trying to find the magnifying glass

  that speaks in measured terms of these deliria,

  and tying on one’s skates,

  half a century from the grouches of home.

  Plain as Day

  with all its accoutrements

  (of course)—intact, impervious

  to air, sand, and time—the three fatal

  sisters with nary a thought

  in their heads except where to cut it—

  and it goes out, like a candle or a father

  to buy a pack of cigarettes. You knew

  this. WE all knew it. It’s the old

  weather shuffle behind a different

  sun veil—shot, diapered

  the way they always want it.

  It never snows on Tuesday—far

  be it from me to suggest otherwise, only

  there is this difference, this little difference

  that won’t go away,

  that’s been waiting since before the office opened.

  What shall I tell it?

  Those that are taken leave no footprint

  on the air, no smile

  on the soused sky.

  It’s another kind of smile

  speeding toward us like an express train

  we’ll never see. Please put out the light,

  the ashes, when you leave.

  Same in Texas or Louisiana. Meaning

  no mail for you today, and would you please call back?

  It’s urgent. Well, was. I’ve been waiting hours

  on a bench next to a fugitive general.