A Poem of Unrest

A Poem of Unrest, by John Ashbery


November 05, 1995


Men duly understand the river of life,

misconstruing it, as it widens and its cities grow

dark and denser, always farther away.

****

And of course that remote denseness suits

us, as lambs and clover might have

if things had been built to order differently.

****

But since I don't understand myself, only segments

of myself that misunderstand each other, there's no

reason for you to want to, no way you could

****

even if we both wanted it. Do those towers even exist?

We must look at it that way, along those lines

so the thought can erect itself, like plywood battlements.

From "Can You Hear, Bird" by John Ashbery. (Farrar, Straus & Giroux: $20; 175 pp.) 1995 Reprinted by permission.

Late Echo

John Ashbery: Late Echo

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.

found here - Obrigado.