Tired
Too tired to write actual things and plus I have things to write for a class. So let's see if anyone digs John Ashbery. He's a little tougher than Creeley & some others, but I think if people slow down a bit they'll see he's every bit as enjoyable (and of course a hell of a fine writer):
HONORED GUEST
Accept these nice things we have no use for:
polished twilight, mix of clouds & sun,
minnows in a stream. there may come a time
we'll need them. they're yours forever,
or another dream leaves you thirsty,
waking. You can't see the table
or the bread. How about a clean, unopened letter
and the smell of toast?
School is closed today--it's thundering.
The calendar has backed up or been reversed
so the days have no least common denominator.
Anyway, it was fun, trying to figure out
who you were, what it was that led you to us.
Was it the smell of camphor? Or an ad
in an out-of-state newspaper, seeking news
of someone who disapppeared long ago?
He was in uniform, and leaned against a car,
smiling at a girl who seemed to shade her eyes from him.
Can it be? Candace, was it you? There's no way
she'll look our way again.
What can I tell you? Everything's been locked up
for the night, I couldn't get it for you
if I wanted to. But there must be some way--
it's drizzling, the lamps along the path are weeping,
wanting to show you this tremendous thing,
boxed in forever, always getting closer.
--John Ashbery
Two things:
1) This poem isn't about mortality (seems the last line might lead people to think that).
2) Ashbery loves juxtaposition & disjunction, meaning that you sort of just have to ride along with him, it's just confusing if you try to figure him out literally.
HONORED GUEST
Accept these nice things we have no use for:
polished twilight, mix of clouds & sun,
minnows in a stream. there may come a time
we'll need them. they're yours forever,
or another dream leaves you thirsty,
waking. You can't see the table
or the bread. How about a clean, unopened letter
and the smell of toast?
School is closed today--it's thundering.
The calendar has backed up or been reversed
so the days have no least common denominator.
Anyway, it was fun, trying to figure out
who you were, what it was that led you to us.
Was it the smell of camphor? Or an ad
in an out-of-state newspaper, seeking news
of someone who disapppeared long ago?
He was in uniform, and leaned against a car,
smiling at a girl who seemed to shade her eyes from him.
Can it be? Candace, was it you? There's no way
she'll look our way again.
What can I tell you? Everything's been locked up
for the night, I couldn't get it for you
if I wanted to. But there must be some way--
it's drizzling, the lamps along the path are weeping,
wanting to show you this tremendous thing,
boxed in forever, always getting closer.
--John Ashbery
Two things:
1) This poem isn't about mortality (seems the last line might lead people to think that).
2) Ashbery loves juxtaposition & disjunction, meaning that you sort of just have to ride along with him, it's just confusing if you try to figure him out literally.