John Ashbery

Sometimes something like a second washes the base of this street. The father and his two assistants are given permission to go. One of them, a woman, asks, “Why did we come here in the first place, to this citadel of dampness?” Some days are worse than others, even if we can’t believe in them. But that was never a concern of mine, reasoned the patient. Sing, scroll, or never be blasted by us into marmoreal meaning, or the fist for it. Kudos to the prince who journeyed here to negotiate our release, if you can believe it. You’re right. The ballads are retreating back into the atmosphere. They won’t be coming round again. Make your peace.

“Say it enough times and it's August.” —Geoffrey G. O'Brien, “Three Years” On a set you need bush rebels, that numbing little chair while passing. If we knock 'em out seven precincts are going to show up. It looks like you don't need oil. I think it'll be fine. Did she think that might be good, or for the man who listens to it, nothing to be done or thought, (section pending)? Or for the man who listens to it, an abrupt yawn, history or the other. Home economics.  Dr. Singalong can't find his way back. I don't know about that, but at her lamps do you still see the awkward ceremony, too serious? Leave it that way, imperfect start beyond where I was going. Prison outside the perpetual sonata, the only anxiety, since you wonder what they don't do, from your red zero heart page waiting to touch your face. Although they know about it and it literally doesn't exist, no, stay up and go to sleep, unless it falls on the right side of the brain positioned for so many forgeries, moon nugget... I don't cut 'em any slack. Assault on a clean front, that's a lot to be turning into. These residents, they start throwing 'em early. Continue to open your door to mud! Take the noon balloon to Rangoon, gutta percha academy, to the place of ice cream, because, really, what difference does it make? When it was time you went home. Tears and flowers, see how dirty your hands are. We had a lovely dime. Soon it will be seven I ask you.

How little we know, and when we know it! It was prettily said that “No man hath an abundance of cows on the plain, nor shards in his cupboard.” Wait! I think I know who said that! It was . . . Never mind, dears, the afternoon will fold you up, along with preoccupations that now seem so important, until only a child running around on a unicycle occupies center stage. Then what will you make of walls? And I fear you will have to come up with something, be it a terraced gambit above the sea or gossip overheard in the marketplace. For you see, it becomes you to be chastened: for the old to envy the young, and for youth to fear not getting older, where the paths through the elms, the carnivals, begin. And it was said of Gyges that his ring attracted those who saw him not, just as those who wandered through him were aware only of a certain stillness, such as precedes an earache, while lumberjacks in headbands came down to see what all the fuss was about, whether it was something they could be part of sans affront to self-esteem. And those temple hyenas who had seen enough, nostrils aflare, fur backing up in the breeze, were no place you could count on, having taken a proverbial powder as rifle butts received another notch. I, meanwhile . . . I was going to say I had squandered spring when summer came along and took it from me like a terrier a lady has asked one to hold for a moment while she adjusts her stocking in the mirror of a weighing machine. But here it is winter, and wrong to speak of other seasons as though they exist. Time has only an agenda in the wallet at his back, while we who think we know where we are going unfazed end up in brilliant woods, nourished more than we can know by the unexpectedness of ice and stars and crackling tears. We’ll just have to make a go of it, a run for it. And should the smell of baking cookies appease one or the other of the olfactory senses, climb down into this wagonload of prisoners. The meter will be screamingly clear then, the rhythms unbounced, for though we came to life as to a school, we must leave it without graduating even as an ominous wind puffs out the sails of proud feluccas who don’t know where they’re headed, only that a motion is etched there, shaking to be free.

Furthermore, Mr. Tuttle used to have to run in the streets. Now, each time friendship happens, they’re fully booked. Sporting with amaryllis in the shade is all fine and good, but when your sparring partner gets there first you wonder if it was all worth it. “Yes, why do it?” I’m on hold. It will take quite a lot for this music to grow on me. I meant no harm. I’ve helped him from getting stuck before. Dumb thing. All my appetites are friendly. Children too are free to go and come as they please. I ask you only to choose between us, then shut down this election. But don’t reveal too much of your hand at any given time. Then up and pipes the major, leave the hand in, or change the vows. The bold, enduring menace of courtship is upon us like the plague, and none of us can say what trouble will be precipitated once it has had its way with us. Our home is marshland. After dinner was wraparound. You got a tender little look at it. Outside, it never did turn golden.

The girl in the green ski chasuble hasn’t yet graduated from radio school. Let’s pay attention. Looking ahead, why, he waved his mouth along. Doesn’t life get difficult in the summer? The divine medicine for it collapsed in front of the shortstop, who took off like a battalion. Crowds of older people who would read this happily, willingly, then walking into night’s embrace, then kiss.“To turn you out, to turn you out!” Sometimes an arm is accused: You could have felt it, the blue shirts, phlegm central, four times a night. But what does that get me? Light refreshments. When the suburban demonstration kind of shrunk you put your foot out, leave it or kiss it or even two years ago, Charmaine here tells us. I think I should stay ... Cross-eyed sonofabitch ... He liked him, he could tell. A de-happening. The gangster no longer wanted to sleep with him, but what the heck. With time off for actual fuzz collected ... All right, boys. Cheap murders, peach driven ... I seen enough of those samples along the way.

Alone with our madness and favorite flower We see that there really is nothing left to write about. Or rather, it is necessary to write about the same old things In the same way, repeating the same things over and over For love to continue and be gradually different. Beehives and ants have to be re-examined eternally And the color of the day put in Hundreds of times and varied from summer to winter For it to get slowed down to the pace of an authentic Saraband and huddle there, alive and resting. Only then can the chronic inattention Of our lives drape itself around us, conciliatory And with one eye on those long tan plush shadows That speak so deeply into our unprepared knowledge Of ourselves, the talking engines of our day.

No changes of support—only Patches of gray, here where sunlight fell. The house seems heavier Now that they have gone away. In fact it emptied in record time. When the flat table used to result A match recedes, slowly, into the night. The academy of the future is Opening its doors and willing The fruitless sunlight streams into domes, The chairs piled high with books and papers. The sedate one is this month’s skittish one Confirming the property that, A timeless value, has changed hands. And you could have a new automobile Ping pong set and garage, but the thief Stole everything like a miracle. In his book there was a picture of treason only And in the garden, cries and colors.

As I sit looking out of a window of the building I wish I did not have to write the instruction manual on the uses of a new metal. I look down into the street and see people, each walking with an inner peace, And envy them—they are so far away from me! Not one of them has to worry about getting out this manual on schedule. And, as my way is, I begin to dream, resting my elbows on the desk and leaning out of the window a little, Of dim Guadalajara! City of rose-colored flowers! City I wanted most to see, and most did not see, in Mexico! But I fancy I see, under the press of having to write the instruction manual, Your public square, city, with its elaborate little bandstand! The band is playing Scheherazade by Rimsky-Korsakov. Around stand the flower girls, handing out rose- and lemon-colored flowers, Each attractive in her rose-and-blue striped dress (Oh! such shades of rose and blue), And nearby is the little white booth where women in green serve you green and yellow fruit. The couples are parading; everyone is in a holiday mood. First, leading the parade, is a dapper fellow Clothed in deep blue. On his head sits a white hat And he wears a mustache, which has been trimmed for the occasion. His dear one, his wife, is young and pretty; her shawl is rose, pink, and white. Her slippers are patent leather, in the American fashion, And she carries a fan, for she is modest, and does not want the crowd to see her face too often. But everybody is so busy with his wife or loved one I doubt they would notice the mustachioed man’s wife. Here come the boys! They are skipping and throwing little things on the sidewalk Which is made of gray tile. One of them, a little older, has a toothpick in his teeth. He is silenter than the rest, and affects not to notice the pretty young girls in white. But his friends notice them, and shout their jeers at the laughing girls. Yet soon all this will cease, with the deepening of their years, And love bring each to the parade grounds for another reason. But I have lost sight of the young fellow with the toothpick. Wait—there he is—on the other side of the bandstand, Secluded from his friends, in earnest talk with a young girl Of fourteen or fifteen. I try to hear what they are saying But it seems they are just mumbling something—shy words of love, probably. She is slightly taller than he, and looks quietly down into his sincere eyes. She is wearing white. The breeze ruffles her long fine black hair against her olive cheek. Obviously she is in love. The boy, the young boy with the toothpick, he is in love too; His eyes show it. Turning from this couple, I see there is an intermission in the concert. The paraders are resting and sipping drinks through straws (The drinks are dispensed from a large glass crock by a lady in dark blue), And the musicians mingle among them, in their creamy white uniforms, and talk About the weather, perhaps, or how their kids are doing at school. Let us take this opportunity to tiptoe into one of the side streets. Here you may see one of those white houses with green trim That are so popular here. Look—I told you! It is cool and dim inside, but the patio is sunny. An old woman in gray sits there, fanning herself with a palm leaf fan. She welcomes us to her patio, and offers us a cooling drink. “My son is in Mexico City,” she says. “He would welcome you too If he were here. But his job is with a bank there. Look, here is a photograph of him.” And a dark-skinned lad with pearly teeth grins out at us from the worn leather frame. We thank her for her hospitality, for it is getting late And we must catch a view of the city, before we leave, from a good high place. That church tower will do—the faded pink one, there against the fierce blue of the sky. Slowly we enter. The caretaker, an old man dressed in brown and gray, asks us how long we have been in the city, and how we like it here. His daughter is scrubbing the steps—she nods to us as we pass into the tower. Soon we have reached the top, and the whole network of the city extends before us. There is the rich quarter, with its houses of pink and white, and its crumbling, leafy terraces. There is the poorer quarter, its homes a deep blue. There is the market, where men are selling hats and swatting flies And there is the public library, painted several shades of pale green and beige. Look! There is the square we just came from, with the promenaders. There are fewer of them, now that the heat of the day has increased, But the young boy and girl still lurk in the shadows of the bandstand. And there is the home of the little old lady— She is still sitting in the patio, fanning herself. How limited, but how complete withal, has been our experience of Guadalajara! We have seen young love, married love, and the love of an aged mother for her son. We have heard the music, tasted the drinks, and looked at colored houses. What more is there to do, except stay? And that we cannot do. And as a last breeze freshens the top of the weathered old tower, I turn my gaze Back to the instruction manual which has made me dream of Guadalajara.

In town it was very urban but in the country cows were covering the hills. The clouds were near and very moist. I was walking along the pavement with Anna, enjoying the scattered scenery. Suddenly a sound like a deep bell came from behind us. We both turned to look. “It’s the words you spoke in the past, coming back to haunt you,” Anna explained. “They always do, you know.” Indeed I did. Many times this deep bell-like tone had intruded itself on my thoughts, scrambling them at first, then rearranging them in apple-pie order. “Two crows,” the voice seemed to say, “were sitting on a sundial in the God-given sunlight. Then one flew away.” “Yes . . .and then?” I wanted to ask, but I kept silent. We turned into a courtyard and walked up several flights of stairs to the roof, where a party was in progress. “This is my friend Hans,” Anna said by way of introduction. No one paid much attention and several guests moved away to the balustrade to admire the view of orchards and vineyards, approaching their autumn glory. One of the women however came to greet us in a friendly manner. I was wondering if this was a “harvest home,” a phrase I had often heard but never understood. “Welcome to my home . . . well, to our home,” the woman said gaily. “As you can see, the grapes are being harvested.” It seemed she could read my mind. “They say this year’s vintage will be a mediocre one, but the sight is lovely, nonetheless. Don’t you agree, Mr. . . .” “Hans,” I replied curtly. The prospect was indeed a lovely one, but I wanted to leave. Making some excuse I guided Anna by the elbow toward the stairs and we left. “That wasn’t polite of you,” she said dryly. “Honey, I’ve had enough of people who can read your mind. When I want it done I’ll go to a mind reader.” “I happen to be one and I can tell you what you’re thinking is false. Listen to what the big bell says: ‘We are all strangers on our own turf, in our own time.’ You should have paid attention. Now adjustments will have to be made.”

Oh there once was a woman and she kept a shop selling trinkets to tourists not far from a dock who came to see what life could be far back on the island. And it was always a party there always different but very nice New friends to give you advice or fall in love with you which is nice and each grew so perfectly from the other it was a marvel of poetry and irony And in this unsafe quarter much was scary and dirty but no one seemed to mind very much the parties went on from house to house There were friends and lovers galore all around the store There was moonshine in winter and starshine in summer and everybody was happy to have discovered what they discovered And then one day the ship sailed away There were no more dreamers just sleepers in heavy attitudes on the dock moving as if they knew how among the trinkets and the souvenirs the random shops of modern furniture and a gale came and said it is time to take all of you away from the tops of the trees to the little houses on little paths so startled And when it became time to go they none of them would leave without the other for they said we are all one here and if one of us goes the other will not go and the wind whispered it to the stars the people all got up to go and looked back on love