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#john ashbery
soracities · 19 hours ago
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Mon trésor, she said, this is / where I / disappear for a few moments, I want you to be brave.
John Ashbery, from “Alive at Every Moment”, Wakefulness: Poems
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nobeerreviews · a month ago
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The evening light was like honey in the trees When you left me and walked to the end of the street Where the sunset abruptly ended.
-- John Ashbery
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lilliana47 · a month ago
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Now sometimes in the evenings, I am lonely / with dread.
~John Ashbery
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derangedrhythms · a year ago
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The night is cold and delicate and full of angels
John Ashbery, Rivers and Mountains; from ‘The Ecclesiast’
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memoryslandscape · 8 months ago
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You always leave me where we left off.
John Ashbery, from “Pot Luck,” Your Name Here: Poems (Farrar, Straus, & Giroux, 2000)
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thebluesthour · 3 days ago
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And in places where the water has ebbed the sky is midnight blue, like ink spreading from a nib.
John Ashbery, from “Tangled Star”, Wakefulness: Poems
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virgin-martyr · 20 days ago
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John Ashbery, excerpt from “Self-Portrait in a Convex Mirror”
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beforevenice · 5 months ago
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The evening light was like honey in the trees When you left me and walked to the end of the street Where the sunset abruptly ended.
// John Ashbery
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perkwunos · 2 months ago
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John Ashbery
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the-shooting-star · a day ago
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Tomorrow would alter the sense of what had already been learned,
That the learning process is extended in this way, so that from this standpoint
None of us ever graduates from college,
For time is an emulsion, and probably thinking not to grow up
Is the brightest kind of maturity for us, right now at any rate.
John Ashbery, Soonest Mended
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ravenkings · a month ago
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“Since reality was too prickly for my lavish personality,– I found myself nonetheless in my lady’s house, got up as a great blue-gray bird soaring toward the ceiling moldings and dragging my wings through the shadows of the soirée.”
–from “Bottom” by Arthur Rimbaud (Trans. John Ashbery), Illuminations
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soracities · 55 minutes ago
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Pale hands I loved, too numerous to mention.
John Ashbery, from “The Fop’s Tale”, Quick Question: Poems
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indeskidgepoetry · 10 months ago
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But it is the nature of things to be seen only once,
John Ashberry, from his poem “Syringa”
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jacobwren · 7 months ago
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I write with experiences in mind, but I don't write about them, I write out of them.
John Ashbery
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memoryslandscape · 8 months ago
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The blond moon came untied, drifted through blue-black wisps of a woodpile somewhere. Must I follow her too?
John Ashbery, from “Frogs and Gospels,” Your Name Here: Poems (Farrar, Straus, & Giroux, 2000)
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dadaaesthetic · 4 months ago
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"Where are you?
Where you are is the one thing I love,
yet it always escapes me,"
_John Ashbery
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gregorygalloway · 5 months ago
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John Ashbery (28 July 1927 - 3 September 2017)
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dirtyfilthy · 7 months ago
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“This Room” - John Ashbery
The room I entered was a dream of this room. Surely all those feet on the sofa were mine. The oval portrait of a dog was me at an early age. Something shimmers, something is hushed up. We had macaroni for lunch every day except Sunday, when a small quail was induced to be served to us. Why do I tell you these things? You are not even here.
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perkwunos · 2 months ago
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John Ashbery
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elwenyere · 4 months ago
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Down by the Station Early in the Morning
by John Ashbery
It all wears out. I keep telling myself this, but I can never believe me, though others do. Even things do. And the things they do. Like the rasp of silk, or a certain glottal stop in your voice as you are telling me how you didn’t have time to brush your teeth but gargled with Listerine instead. Each is a base one might wish to touch once more
before dying. There’s the moment, years ago in the station in Venice, the dark rainy afternoon in fourth grade, and the shoes then, made of a dull crinkled brown leather that no longer exists. And nothing does, until you name it, remembering, and even then it may not have existed, or existed only as a result of the perceptual dysfunction you’ve been carrying around for years. The result is magic, then terror, then pity at the emptiness, then air gradually bathing and filling the emptiness as it leaks, emoting all over something that is probably mere reportage but nevertheless likes being emoted on. And so each day culminates in merriment as well as a deep shock like an electric one,
as the wrecking ball bursts through the wall with the bookshelves scattering the walls of famous authors as well as those of more obscure ones, and books with no author, letting in space, and an extraneous babble from the street confirming the new value the hollow core has again, the light from the lighthouse that protects as it pushes away.
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