by John Ashbery
Lengthening arches. The intensity of minor acts. As skaters elaborate their distances,
Taking a separate line to its end. Returning to the mass, they join each other
Blotted in an incredible mess of dark colors, and again reappearing to take the theme
Some little distance, like fishing boats developing from the land different parabolas,
Taking the exquisite theme far, into farness, to Land’s End, to the ends of the earth!
But the livery of the year, the changing air
Bring each to fulfillment. Leaving phrases unfinished,
Gestures half-sketched against woodsmoke. The abundant sap
Oozes in girls’ throats, the sticky words, half-uttered, unwished for,
A blanket disbelief, quickly supplanted by idle questions that fade in turn.
Slowly the mood turns to look at itself as some urchin
Forgotten by the roadside. New schemes are got up, new taxes,
Earthworks. And the hours become light again.
Girls wake up in it.
It is best to remain indoors. Because there is error
In so much precision. As flames are fanned, wishful thinking arises
Bearing its own prophets, its pointed ignoring. And just as a desire
Settles down at the end of a long spring day, over heather and watered shoot and dried rush field,
So error is plaited into desires not yet born.
Therefore the post must be resumed (is being falsified
To be forever involved, tragically, with one’s own image?).
The studio light suddenly invaded the long casement—values were what
She knows now. But the floor is being slowly pulled apart
Like straw under those limpid feet.
And Helga, in the minuscule apartment in Jersey City
Is reacting violet to the same kind of dress, is drawing death
Again in blossoms against the reactionary fire … pulsing
And knowing nothing to superb lambent distances that intercalate
This city. Is the death of the cube repeated. Or in the musical album.
It is time now for a general understanding of
The meaning of all this. The meaning of Helga, importance of the setting, etc.
A description of the blues. Labels on bottles
And all kinds of discarded objects that ought to be described.
But can one ever be sure of which ones?
Isn’t this a death-trap, wanting to put too much in
So the floor sags, as under the weight of a piano, or a piano-legged girl
And the whole house of cards comes dinning down around one’s ears!
But this is an important aspect of the question
Which I am not ready to discuss, am not at all ready to,
This leaving-out business. On it hinges the very importance of what’s novel
Or autocratic, or dense or silly. It is as well to call attention
To it by exaggeration, perhaps. But calling attention
Isn’t the same thing as explaining, and as I said I am not ready
To line phrases with the costly stuff of explanation, and shall not,
Will not do so for the moment. Except to say that the carnivorous
Way of these lines is to devour their own nature, leaving
Nothing but a bitter impression of absence, which as we know involves presence, but still.
Nevertheless these are fundamental absences, struggling to get up and be off themselves.
This, thus is a portion of the subject of this poem
Which is in the form of falling snow:
That is, the individual flakes are not essential to the importance of the whole’s becoming so much of a truism
That their importance is again called in question, to be denied further out, and again and again like this.
Hence, neither the importance of the individual flake,
Nor the importance of the whole impression of the storm, if it has any, is what it is,
But the rhythm of the series of repeated jumps, from abstract into positive and back to a slightly less diluted abstract.
Mild effects are the result.
I cannot think any more of going out into all that, will stay here
With my quiet schmerzen. Besides the storm is almost over
Having frozen the face of the bust into a strange style with the lips
And the teeth the most distinct part of the whole business.
It is this madness to explain. …
What is the matter with plain old-fashioned cause-and-effect?
Leaving one alone with romantic impressions of the trees, the sky?
Who, actually, is going to be fooled one instant by these phony explanations,
Think them important? So back we go to the old, imprecise feelings, the
Common knowledge, the importance of duly suffering and the occasional glimpses
Of some balmy felicity. The world of Schubert’s lieder. I am fascinated
Though by the urge to get out of it all, by going
Further in and correcting the whole mismanaged mess. But am afraid I’ll
Be of no help to you. Good-bye.
As balloons are to the poet, so to the ground
Its varied assortment of trees. The more assorted they are, the
Vaster his experience. Sometimes
You catch sight of them on a level with the top story of a house,
Strung up there for publicity purposes. Or like those bubbles
Children make with a kind of ring, not a pipe, and probably using some detergent
Rather than plain everyday soap and water. Where was I? The balloons
Drift thoughtfully over the land, not exactly commenting on it;
These are the range of the poet’s experience. He can hide in trees
Like a hamadryad, but wisely prefers not to, letting the balloons
Idle him out of existence, as a car idles. Traveling faster
And more furiously across unknown horizons, belted into the night
Wishing more and more to be unlike someone, getting the whole thing
(So he believes) out of his system. Inventing systems.
We are a part of some system, thinks he, just as the sun is part of
The solar system. Trees brake his approach. And he seems to be wearing but
Haifa coat, viewed from one side. A “half-man” look inspiring the disgust of honest folk
Returning from chores, the milk frozen, the pump heaped high with a chapeau of snow,
The “No Skating” sign as well. But it is here that he is best,
Face to face with the unsmiling alternatives of his nerve-wracking existence.
Placed squarely in front of his dilemma, on all fours before the lamentable spectacle of the unknown.
Yet knowing where men are coming from. It is this, to hold the candle up to the album.
II
Under the window marked “General Delivery” …
This should be a letter
Throwing you a minute to one side,
Of how this tossing looks harmonious from a distance,
Like sea or the tops of trees, and how
Only when one gets closer is its sadness small and appreciable.
It can be held in the hand.
All this must go into a letter.
Also the feeling of being lived, looking for people,
And gradual peace and relaxation.
But there’s no personal involvement:
These sudden bursts of hot and cold
Are wreathed in shadowless intensity
Whose moment saps them of all characteristics.
Thus beginning to rest you at once know.
Once there was a point in these islands,
Coming to see where the rock had rotted away,
And turning into a tiny speck in the distance.
But war’s savagery. … Even the most patient sc
holar, now
Could hardly reconstruct the old fort exactly as it was.
That trees continue to wave over it. That there is also a small museum somewhere inside.
That the history of costume is no less fascinating than the history of great migrations.
I’d like to bugger you all up.
Deliberately falsify all your old suck-ass notions
Of how chivalry is being lived. What goes on in beehives.
But the whole filthy mess, misunderstandings included,
Problems about the tunic button etc. How much of any one person is there.
Still, after bananas and spoonbread in the shadow of the old walls
It is cooling to return under the eaves in the shower
That probably fell while we were inside, examining bowknots,
Old light-bulb sockets, places where the whitewash had begun to flake
With here and there an old map or illustration. Here’s one for instance—
Looks like a weather map … or a coiled bit of wallpaper with a design
Of faded hollyhocks, or abstract fruit and gumdrops in chains.
But how is it that you are always indoors, peering at too heavily canceled stamps through a greasy magnifying glass?
And slowly the incoherences of day melt in
A general wishful thinking of night
To peruse certain stars over the bay.
Cataracts of peace pour from the poised heavens
And only fear of snakes prevents us from passing the night in the open air.
The day is definitely at an end.
Old heavens, you used to tweak above us,
Standing like rain whenever a salvo … Old heavens,
You lying there above the old, but not ruined, fort,
Can you hear, there, what I am saying?
For it is you I am parodying,
Your invisible denials. And the almost correct impressions
Corroborated by newsprint, which is so fine.
I call to you there, but I do not think that you will answer me.
For I am condemned to drum my fingers
On the closed lid of this piano, this tedious planet, earth
As it winks to you through the aspiring, growing distances,
A last spark before the night.
There was much to be said in favor of storms
But you seem to have abandoned them in favor of endless light.
I cannot say that I think the change much of an improvement.
There is something fearful in these summer nights that go on forever. …
We are nearing the Moorish coast, I think, in a bateau.
I wonder if I will have any friends there
Whether the future will be kinder to me than the past, for example,
And am all set to be put out, finding it to be not.
Still, I am prepared for this voyage, and for anything else you may care to mention.
Not that I am not afraid, but there is very little time left.
You have probably made travel arrangements, and know the feeling.
Suddenly, one morning, the little train arrives in the station, but oh, so big
It is! Much bigger and faster than anyone told you.
A bearded student in an old baggy overcoat is waiting to take it.
“Why do you want to go there,” they all say. “It is better in the other direction.”
And so it is. There people are free, at any rate. But where you are going no one is.
Still there are parks and libraries to be visited, “la Bibliothèque Municipale,”
Hotel reservations and all that rot. Old American films dubbed into the foreign language,
Coffee and whiskey and cigar stubs. Nobody minds. And rain on the bristly wool of your topcoat.
I realize that I never knew why I wanted to come.
Yet I shall never return to the past, that attic,
Its sailboats are perhaps more beautiful than these, these I am leaning against,
Spangled with diamonds and orange and purple stains,
Bearing me once again in quest of the unknown. These sails are life itself to me.
I heard a girl say this once, and cried, and brought her fresh fruit and fishes,
Olives and golden baked loaves. She dried her tears and thanked me.
Now we are both setting sail into the purplish evening.
I love it! This cruise can never last long enough for me.
But once more, office desks, radiators—No! That is behind me.
No more dullness, only movies and love and laughter, sex and fun.
The ticket seller is blowing his little horn—hurry before the window slams down.
The train we are getting onto is a boat train, and the boats are really boats this time.
But I heard the heavens say—Is it right? This continual changing back and forth?
Laughter and tears and so on? Mightn’t just plain sadness be sufficient for him?
No! I’ll not accept that any more, you bewhiskered old caverns of blue!
This is just right for me. I am cozily ensconced in the balcony of my face
Looking out over the whole darn countryside, a beacon of satisfaction
I am. I’ll not trade places with a king. Here I am then, continuing but ever beginning
My perennial voyage, into new memories, new hope and flowers
The way the coasts glide past you. I shall never forget this moment
Because it consists of purest ecstasy. I am happier now than I ever dared believe
Anyone could be. And we finger down the dog-eared coasts. …
It is all passing! It is past! No, I am here,
Bellow the coasts, and even the heavens roar their assent
As we pick up a lemon-colored light horizontally
Projected into the night, the night that heaven
Was kind enough to send, and I launch into the happiest dreams,
Happier once again, because tomorrow is already here.
Yet certain kernels remain. Clouds that drift past sheds—
Read it in the official bulletin. We shan’t be putting out today.
The old stove smoked worse than ever because rain was coming down its chimney.
Only the bleary eye of fog accosted one through the mended pane.
Outside, the swamp water lapped the broken wood step.
A rowboat was moored in the alligator-infested swamp.
Somewhere, from deep in the interior of the jungle, a groan was heard.
Could it be …? Anyway, a rainy day—wet weather.
The whole voyage will have to be canceled.
It would be impossible to make different connections.
Besides, the hotels are all full at this season. The junks packed with refugees
Returning from the islands. Sea-bream and flounder abound in the muddied waters. …
They in fact represent the backbone of the island economy.
That, and cigar rolling. Please leave your papers at the desk as you pass out,
You know. “The Wedding March.” Ah yes, that’s the way. The couple descend
The steps of the little old church. Ribbons are flung, ribbons of cloud
And the sun seems to be coming out. But there have been so many false alarms. …
No, it’s happened! The storm is over. Again the weather is fine and clear.
And the voyage? It’s on! Listen everybody, the ship is starting,
I can hear its whistle’s roar! We have just time enough to make it to the dock!
And away they pour, in the sulfurous sunlight,
To the aqua and silver waters where stands the glistening white ship
And into the great vessel they flood, a motley and happy crowd
Chanting and pouring down hymns on the surface of the ocean. …
Pulling, tugging us along with them, by means of streamers,
Golden and silver confetti. Smiling, we laugh and sing with the reve
lers
But are not quite certain that we want to go—the dock is so sunny and warm.
That majestic ship will pull up anchor who knows where?
And full of laughter and tears, we sidle once again with the other passengers.
The ground is heaving under foot. Is it the ship? It could be the dock. …
And with a great whoosh all the sails go up. … Hideous black smoke belches forth from the funnels
Smudging the gold carnival costumes with the gaiety of its jet-black soot
And, as into a tunnel the voyage starts
Only, as I said, to be continued. The eyes of those left standing on the dock are wet
But ours are dry. Into the secretive, vaporous night with all of us!
Into the unknown, the unknown that loves us, the great unknown!
So man nightly
Sparingly descends
The birches and the hay all of him
Pruned, erect for vital contact. As the separate mists of day slip
Uncomplainingly into the atmosphere. Loving you? The question sinks into
That mazy business
About writing or to have read it in some book
To silently move away. At Gannosfonadiga the pumps
Working, argent in the thickening sunset, like boys’ shoulders
And you return to the question as to a calendar of November
Again and again consulting the surface of that enormous affair
I think not to have loved you but the music
Petting the enameled slow-imagined stars
A concert of dissatisfaction whereby gutter and dust seep
To engross the mirrored image and its landscape:
As when
through darkness and mist
the pole-bringer
demandingly watches
I am convinced these things are of some importance.
Firstly, it is a preparing to go outward
Of no planet limiting the enjoyment
Of motion—hips free of embarrassment etc.
The figure 8 is a perfect symbol
Of the freedom to be gained in this kind of activity.
The perspective lines of the barn are another and different kind of example
(Viz. “Rigg’s Farm, near Aysgarth, Wensleydale,” or the “Sketch at Norton”)
In which we escape ourselves—putrefying mass of prevarications etc.—
In remaining close to the limitations imposed.
Another example is this separate dying
Still keeping in mind the coachmen, servant girls, duchesses, etc. (cf. Jeremy Taylor)
Falling away, rhythm of too-wet snow, but parallel