By John Ashbery
Thrill of a Romance
It's assorted if you have hiccups.
every thing is—so many blissful palms competing
in your cognizance, a headband, a pant of soot,
or simply a blast of silence from a radio.
what's it? That's that you can study
on your dismay whilst, on the finish of an extended queue
within the cafeteria, tray in hand, they let you know the gate closed down
after the second one international warfare. Syracuse was once declared capital
of a state in malaise, however the directorate
had different, hidden ambitions. To proclaim good judgment
a casualty of fact used to be one.
Everyone's solitude (and ensuing promiscuity)
perfumed the byways of villages we had suggestion civilized.
I observed you watching for a streetcar and pressed ahead.
unfortunately, you have been just a baby in armor. Now while ribald toasts
sail around a desk too reasonable laid out, why the results
are just dirt, sickness and outdated age. friendly stories
are only that. So I channel no matter what
into my contingency, a vein of mercury
that retains breaking out, greater up, extra on time
each time. Dirndls noticed with out of date plant life,
worn within the urban back, advertise open discussion.
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Extra info for A Worldly Country: New Poems
So, yes, others had to precede us, meaning we’re lost in a swamp with coevals who like us because we like to do things with them. The forced march makes perfect sense under such conditions. Let’s celebrate then, let there be some refreshing change overtaking all we were meant to achieve and didn’t. On the practical side it looks as though their team lost and ours failed to languish, absent a compelling reason to do so. 35 Of the “East” River’s Charm homage to Samuel Greenberg (1893–1917) We read memorial happiness and cover Our tables with the great blossoms.
Are we better for it? I ask you. Subway chiming, ghost pilgrims ﬂowing through revolving doors. All change reassures the nattering classes. They can have what they want as long as nobody much takes an interest in it. The dim ﬂood restores us to our senses. What time is it? Or was it? Would you say those ﬁgures are accurate? Did a dream publish you as you turned in sleep to that other accessory, who waited so long that the life drained out of his circumstance? Imagine that you can have this time any way it comes easily, that a doctor wrote you a prescription for savage joy and they say they can ﬁll it if you’ll wait a moment.
You knew that. What’s your name down there? Despite misgivings, the story clicks to a halt, as always. The credits surge. People rush to leave. The shiny cars of another era are coming to take us where we wish to be taken, lest we outstay our welcome and sink in the embrace of another mood. 31 The Inchcape Rock Prop up the “meaning,” take the trash out, the dog for a walk, give the old balls a scratch, apologize for three things by Friday—oh quiet noumenon of my soul, this is it, right? You lost the key and the answer is inside somewhere, and where are you going to breathe?
A Worldly Country: New Poems by John Ashbery