Rest in Power
September 3, 2017 3:30 PM Subscribe
Poet John Ashbery has died.
A Sweet Disorder
Pardon my sarong. I’ll have a Shirley Temple.
Certainly, sir. Do you want a cherry with that?
I guess so. It’s part of it, isn’t it?
Strictly speaking, yes. Some of them likes it,
others not so much. Well, I’ll have a cherry.
I can be forgiven for not knowing it’s de rigueur.
In my commuter mug, please. Certainly.
He doesn’t even remember me.
It was a nice, beautiful day.
One of your favorite foxtrots was on,
neckties they used to wear.
You could rely on that.
My gosh, it’s already 7:30.
Are these our containers?
Pardon my past, because, you know,
it was like all one piece.
It can’t have escaped your escaped your attention
that I would argue.
How was it supposed to look?
Do I wake or sleep?
A Sweet Disorder
Pardon my sarong. I’ll have a Shirley Temple.
Certainly, sir. Do you want a cherry with that?
I guess so. It’s part of it, isn’t it?
Strictly speaking, yes. Some of them likes it,
others not so much. Well, I’ll have a cherry.
I can be forgiven for not knowing it’s de rigueur.
In my commuter mug, please. Certainly.
He doesn’t even remember me.
It was a nice, beautiful day.
One of your favorite foxtrots was on,
neckties they used to wear.
You could rely on that.
My gosh, it’s already 7:30.
Are these our containers?
Pardon my past, because, you know,
it was like all one piece.
It can’t have escaped your escaped your attention
that I would argue.
How was it supposed to look?
Do I wake or sleep?
Weird, I saw one of his books in a bookstore and randomly felt a strong urge to buy it just this afternoon.
posted by eustacescrubb at 3:45 PM on September 3, 2017 [1 favorite]
posted by eustacescrubb at 3:45 PM on September 3, 2017 [1 favorite]
oh jeez.
Meanwhile, fate was simmering down below in its cauldron like some delicious stew
that would never be ready in time; signs of haste in the form of bitten fingernails
and scribbled messages were everywhere apparent, and I have this thing
I must do without knowing what it is or whether anyone
will be helped or offended by it. Should I do it? And there, it was gone.
(from section IV of Flow Chart)
posted by juv3nal at 3:50 PM on September 3, 2017 [5 favorites]
Meanwhile, fate was simmering down below in its cauldron like some delicious stew
that would never be ready in time; signs of haste in the form of bitten fingernails
and scribbled messages were everywhere apparent, and I have this thing
I must do without knowing what it is or whether anyone
will be helped or offended by it. Should I do it? And there, it was gone.
(from section IV of Flow Chart)
posted by juv3nal at 3:50 PM on September 3, 2017 [5 favorites]
Ashbery reads Self-Portrait in a Convex Mirror (text)
posted by juv3nal at 4:07 PM on September 3, 2017 [2 favorites]
posted by juv3nal at 4:07 PM on September 3, 2017 [2 favorites]
.
One of the best of the previous generation of American poets. I hope the future of American poetry--and especially academic poetry--has a multitude of voices and isn't dominated by any one demographic/identity group as much as it has been in the recent past, but I hope there's still room for poets like Ashbery (by the way, it's "Ashbery") too because at his best, this was a human being who could work magic with words. The New York School poets like Ashbery and Frank O'Hara were a highpoint in the American poetry scene for me, probably some of the most interesting, humane, and civilized poetry produced in the English language in the last hundred years. Ashbery could make reading feel like an experience on the edge of dreaming.
posted by saulgoodman at 4:16 PM on September 3, 2017 [2 favorites]
One of the best of the previous generation of American poets. I hope the future of American poetry--and especially academic poetry--has a multitude of voices and isn't dominated by any one demographic/identity group as much as it has been in the recent past, but I hope there's still room for poets like Ashbery (by the way, it's "Ashbery") too because at his best, this was a human being who could work magic with words. The New York School poets like Ashbery and Frank O'Hara were a highpoint in the American poetry scene for me, probably some of the most interesting, humane, and civilized poetry produced in the English language in the last hundred years. Ashbery could make reading feel like an experience on the edge of dreaming.
posted by saulgoodman at 4:16 PM on September 3, 2017 [2 favorites]
A life well-lived in words. Here, from a recent Lithub piece, are 90 people paying tribute to Ashbery by discussing their favorite lines from his work.
I adore subtle and ardent poems like "My Erotic Double" and "Just Walking Around". After the obvious ("Self-Portrait..."), I think my favorite single volume is "A Wave". Here's a lovely one from it:
"But What Is the Reader to Make of This?"
A lake of pain, an absence
Leading to a flowering sea? Give it a quarter-turn
And watch the centuries begin to collapse
Through each other, like floors in a burning building,
Until we get to this afternoon:
Those delicious few words spread around like jam
Don't matter, nor does the shadow.
We have lived blasphemously in history
And nothing has hurt us or can.
But beware of the monstrous tenderness, for out of it
The same blunt archives loom. Facts seize hold of the web
And leave it ash. Still, it is the personal,
Interior life that gives us something to think about.
The rest is only drama.
Meanwhile the combinations of every extendable circumstance
In our lives continue to blow against it like new leaves
At the edge of a forest a battle rages in and out of
For a whole day. It's not the background, we're the background,
On the outside looking out. The surprises history has
For us are nothing compared to the shock we get
From each other, though time still wears
The colors of meanness and melancholy, and the general life
Is still many sizes too big, yet
Has style, woven of things that never happened
With those that did, so that a mood survives
Where life and death never could. Make it sweet again!
posted by informavore at 4:17 PM on September 3, 2017 [4 favorites]
I adore subtle and ardent poems like "My Erotic Double" and "Just Walking Around". After the obvious ("Self-Portrait..."), I think my favorite single volume is "A Wave". Here's a lovely one from it:
"But What Is the Reader to Make of This?"
A lake of pain, an absence
Leading to a flowering sea? Give it a quarter-turn
And watch the centuries begin to collapse
Through each other, like floors in a burning building,
Until we get to this afternoon:
Those delicious few words spread around like jam
Don't matter, nor does the shadow.
We have lived blasphemously in history
And nothing has hurt us or can.
But beware of the monstrous tenderness, for out of it
The same blunt archives loom. Facts seize hold of the web
And leave it ash. Still, it is the personal,
Interior life that gives us something to think about.
The rest is only drama.
Meanwhile the combinations of every extendable circumstance
In our lives continue to blow against it like new leaves
At the edge of a forest a battle rages in and out of
For a whole day. It's not the background, we're the background,
On the outside looking out. The surprises history has
For us are nothing compared to the shock we get
From each other, though time still wears
The colors of meanness and melancholy, and the general life
Is still many sizes too big, yet
Has style, woven of things that never happened
With those that did, so that a mood survives
Where life and death never could. Make it sweet again!
posted by informavore at 4:17 PM on September 3, 2017 [4 favorites]
I hope folks find time to revel for a few moments in Ashbery's lines today, as I did. I've been writing poems seriously for, good lord, twenty years now. Took an MFA. I always regarded Ashbery as a leading light, even if I didn't follow it all of the time. I suspected I wasn't smart enough, or wasn't one of his intended readers... Now that he's gone, all that's gone, which is tragic on its own -- all his work is blooming for me now. There's a now-ness & a here-ness that didn't always click then. To be honest, some of it still doesn't click, & won't -- but somehow now that explains how the world Ashbery rendered & captured could be our world. Often colloquial, certainly American, irrevocably changed, made marvelous, but... still ours.
Gah. Here's a poem I'll transcribe for all. And then there's Walter Becker.
"Disguised Zenith"
"All to do, all over again,
And if I had it..." Light fills a corner
Of the room, not paying attention
To the racing wind outside,
the aching white powder.
Yes, there are Pierrots and Pierrots,
She resumed, but the wind makes maggots of us all,
Flies on a wall, and there is no meaning but in suffering
And where is the suffering in that?
All the beautiful crafts, the tint choicer
Than the rest, are available "at all times," but
We decode them backwards,
Their meaning is *for* our meaning, and where
Is the meaning in that?
Like a long teatime, a stroll
Downward over lawns, always more plumed
And malicious. Did I have you
There, that one time,
And do I have you lost now,
More steady, like a jar
Marveling at its own emptiness, yet you shall taste it,
A sea breeze one day glimpsed,
Taken away, but you never knew you had it
And so notice nothing strange, its absence
Is perfect, and the room suddenly is lighter.
It is really light in this fold. You know why.
~ from April Galleons, 1987
posted by foodbedgospel at 5:12 PM on September 3, 2017 [3 favorites]
Gah. Here's a poem I'll transcribe for all. And then there's Walter Becker.
"Disguised Zenith"
"All to do, all over again,
And if I had it..." Light fills a corner
Of the room, not paying attention
To the racing wind outside,
the aching white powder.
Yes, there are Pierrots and Pierrots,
She resumed, but the wind makes maggots of us all,
Flies on a wall, and there is no meaning but in suffering
And where is the suffering in that?
All the beautiful crafts, the tint choicer
Than the rest, are available "at all times," but
We decode them backwards,
Their meaning is *for* our meaning, and where
Is the meaning in that?
Like a long teatime, a stroll
Downward over lawns, always more plumed
And malicious. Did I have you
There, that one time,
And do I have you lost now,
More steady, like a jar
Marveling at its own emptiness, yet you shall taste it,
A sea breeze one day glimpsed,
Taken away, but you never knew you had it
And so notice nothing strange, its absence
Is perfect, and the room suddenly is lighter.
It is really light in this fold. You know why.
~ from April Galleons, 1987
posted by foodbedgospel at 5:12 PM on September 3, 2017 [3 favorites]
I've told you before how afraid this makes me, but I think we can handle it together.
posted by jimfl at 5:37 PM on September 3, 2017 [3 favorites]
posted by jimfl at 5:37 PM on September 3, 2017 [3 favorites]
Yet one does not know why. The covenant we entered
Bears down on us, some are ensnared, and the right way,
It turns out, is the one that goes straight through the house
And out the back. By so many systems
As we are involved in, by just so many
Are we set free on an ocean of language that comes to be
Part of us, as though we would ever get away.
The sky is bright and very wide, and the waves talk to us,
Preparing dreams we'll have to live with and use. The day will come
When we'll have to. But for now
They're useless, more trees in a landscape of trees.
posted by Joseph Gurl at 5:54 PM on September 3, 2017 [1 favorite]
Bears down on us, some are ensnared, and the right way,
It turns out, is the one that goes straight through the house
And out the back. By so many systems
As we are involved in, by just so many
Are we set free on an ocean of language that comes to be
Part of us, as though we would ever get away.
The sky is bright and very wide, and the waves talk to us,
Preparing dreams we'll have to live with and use. The day will come
When we'll have to. But for now
They're useless, more trees in a landscape of trees.
posted by Joseph Gurl at 5:54 PM on September 3, 2017 [1 favorite]
How to Continue
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
posted by Joseph Gurl at 6:04 PM on September 3, 2017 [6 favorites]
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
posted by Joseph Gurl at 6:04 PM on September 3, 2017 [6 favorites]
Thanks for all the poems posted here: I didn't know about him before, and I find these poems sort of weird and wonderful, after a B.A. filled with Wordsworth and Frost.
posted by wenestvedt at 6:05 PM on September 3, 2017 [1 favorite]
posted by wenestvedt at 6:05 PM on September 3, 2017 [1 favorite]
Some Trees
These are amazing: each
Joining a neighbor, as though speech
Were a still performance.
Arranging by chance
To meet as far this morning
From the world as agreeing
With it, you and I
Are suddenly what the trees try
To tell us we are:
That their merely being there
Means something; that soon
We may touch, love, explain.
And glad not to have invented
Some comeliness, we are surrounded:
A silence already filled with noises,
A canvas on which emerges
A chorus of smiles, a winter morning.
Place in a puzzling light, and moving,
Our days put on such reticence
These accents seem their own defense.
posted by Joseph Gurl at 6:06 PM on September 3, 2017
These are amazing: each
Joining a neighbor, as though speech
Were a still performance.
Arranging by chance
To meet as far this morning
From the world as agreeing
With it, you and I
Are suddenly what the trees try
To tell us we are:
That their merely being there
Means something; that soon
We may touch, love, explain.
And glad not to have invented
Some comeliness, we are surrounded:
A silence already filled with noises,
A canvas on which emerges
A chorus of smiles, a winter morning.
Place in a puzzling light, and moving,
Our days put on such reticence
These accents seem their own defense.
posted by Joseph Gurl at 6:06 PM on September 3, 2017
A Poem of Unrest
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.
posted by Joseph Gurl at 6:07 PM on September 3, 2017 [2 favorites]
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.
posted by Joseph Gurl at 6:07 PM on September 3, 2017 [2 favorites]
The hand holds no chalk--
And each part of the whole falls off
And cannot know it knew, except
Here and there, in cold pockets
Of rememberance, whispers out of time.
- Self-portrait in a convex mirror (1975).
.
posted by sockermom at 6:11 PM on September 3, 2017
And each part of the whole falls off
And cannot know it knew, except
Here and there, in cold pockets
Of rememberance, whispers out of time.
- Self-portrait in a convex mirror (1975).
.
posted by sockermom at 6:11 PM on September 3, 2017
For all of John's (many) moments of impenetrability and poems-for-poets labyrinths, what I still like most about him is when he let his guard down and wrote something overtly playful and cheeky. For you, old man.
The Underwriters
Sir Joshua Lipton drank this tea
and liked it well enough to start selling it
to a few buddies, from the deck of his yacht.
It spread around the world, became a global
kind of thing. Today everybody knows its story,
and we must be careful not to offend our sponsors,
to humor their slightest whims, no matter how insane
they may seem to us at the time. Like the time one of them
wanted all the infants in the burg aged five or under
to be brought before him, wearing rose-colored sashes,
in order that he might read the Book of Job to them all day.
There were, as you may imagine, many tears shed,
flowing and flopping about, but in the end the old geezer
(the sponsor, not Job) was satisfied, and sank into a sleep more delicate
than any the world had ever known. You see what it’s like here—
it’s a madhouse, Sir, and I am planning to flee the first time
an occasion presents himself, say as a bag of laundry,
or the cargo of a muffin truck. Meanwhile, the “sands”
of time, as they call them, are slipping by with scarcely a whisper
except for the most lynx-eyed among us. We’ll make do,
another day, shopping and such, bringing the meat home at night
all roseate and gleaming, ready for the frying pan.
Our names will be read off a roll call we won’t hear—
how could we? We’re not even born yet—the stars will perform their dance
privately, for us, and the pictures in the great black book
that opens at night will enchant us with their yellow harmonies.
We’ll manage to get back, someday, to the tie siding where the idea
of all this began, frustrated and a little hungry, but eager
to hear each others’ tales of what went on in the interim
of our long lives, what the tea leaves said
and whether it turned out that way. I’ll brush your bangs
a little, you’ll lean against my hip for comfort.
posted by lorddimwit at 6:33 PM on September 3, 2017 [8 favorites]
The Underwriters
Sir Joshua Lipton drank this tea
and liked it well enough to start selling it
to a few buddies, from the deck of his yacht.
It spread around the world, became a global
kind of thing. Today everybody knows its story,
and we must be careful not to offend our sponsors,
to humor their slightest whims, no matter how insane
they may seem to us at the time. Like the time one of them
wanted all the infants in the burg aged five or under
to be brought before him, wearing rose-colored sashes,
in order that he might read the Book of Job to them all day.
There were, as you may imagine, many tears shed,
flowing and flopping about, but in the end the old geezer
(the sponsor, not Job) was satisfied, and sank into a sleep more delicate
than any the world had ever known. You see what it’s like here—
it’s a madhouse, Sir, and I am planning to flee the first time
an occasion presents himself, say as a bag of laundry,
or the cargo of a muffin truck. Meanwhile, the “sands”
of time, as they call them, are slipping by with scarcely a whisper
except for the most lynx-eyed among us. We’ll make do,
another day, shopping and such, bringing the meat home at night
all roseate and gleaming, ready for the frying pan.
Our names will be read off a roll call we won’t hear—
how could we? We’re not even born yet—the stars will perform their dance
privately, for us, and the pictures in the great black book
that opens at night will enchant us with their yellow harmonies.
We’ll manage to get back, someday, to the tie siding where the idea
of all this began, frustrated and a little hungry, but eager
to hear each others’ tales of what went on in the interim
of our long lives, what the tea leaves said
and whether it turned out that way. I’ll brush your bangs
a little, you’ll lean against my hip for comfort.
posted by lorddimwit at 6:33 PM on September 3, 2017 [8 favorites]
.
posted by the sobsister at 8:28 PM on September 3, 2017
posted by the sobsister at 8:28 PM on September 3, 2017
.
posted by not_the_water at 8:52 PM on September 3, 2017
posted by not_the_water at 8:52 PM on September 3, 2017
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posted by Samizdata at 9:12 PM on September 3, 2017
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posted by Samizdata at 9:12 PM on September 3, 2017
At North Farm
Somewhere someone is traveling furiously toward you,
At incredible speed, traveling day and night,
Through blizzards and desert heat, across torrents, through narrow passes.
But will he know where to find you,
Recognize you when he sees you,
Give you the thing he has for you?
Hardly anything grows here,
Yet the granaries are bursting with meal,
The sacks of meal piled to the rafters.
The streams run with sweetness, fattening fish;
Birds darken the sky. Is it enough
That the dish of milk is set out at night,
That we think of him sometimes,
Sometimes and always, with mixed feelings?
posted by Joseph Gurl at 10:01 PM on September 3, 2017 [2 favorites]
Somewhere someone is traveling furiously toward you,
At incredible speed, traveling day and night,
Through blizzards and desert heat, across torrents, through narrow passes.
But will he know where to find you,
Recognize you when he sees you,
Give you the thing he has for you?
Hardly anything grows here,
Yet the granaries are bursting with meal,
The sacks of meal piled to the rafters.
The streams run with sweetness, fattening fish;
Birds darken the sky. Is it enough
That the dish of milk is set out at night,
That we think of him sometimes,
Sometimes and always, with mixed feelings?
posted by Joseph Gurl at 10:01 PM on September 3, 2017 [2 favorites]
For me, he was the natural progression of high modernism into a sort of breezy, colloquial poetry equally steeped in learning & everyday life. It is a massive loss to not just American poetry but poetry no matter where you live. He was a true giant.
posted by kariebookish at 2:12 AM on September 4, 2017 [1 favorite]
posted by kariebookish at 2:12 AM on September 4, 2017 [1 favorite]
What a shame. One of my first FPPs too. I'll open my collections later this evening.
posted by ersatz at 2:57 AM on September 4, 2017
posted by ersatz at 2:57 AM on September 4, 2017
Thank you all, especially Joseph Gurl, for sharing so many of his poems.
"Self-Portrait" was the first Ashbery I read.
posted by doctornemo at 5:19 AM on September 4, 2017
"Self-Portrait" was the first Ashbery I read.
posted by doctornemo at 5:19 AM on September 4, 2017
Ignorance of the Law Is No Excuse
We were warned about spiders, and the occasional famine.
We drove downtown to see our neighbors. None of them were home.
We nestled in yards the municipality had created,
reminisced about other, different places—
but were they? Hadn’t we known it all before?
In vineyards where the bee’s hymn drowns the monotony,
we slept for peace, joining in the great run.
He came up to me.
It was all as it had been,
except for the weight of the present,
that scuttled the pact we had made with heaven.
In truth there was no cause for rejoicing,
nor need to turn around, either.
We were lost just by standing,
listening to the hum of wires overhead.
We mourned that meritocracy which, wildly vibrant,
had kept food on the table and milk in the glass.
In skid-row, slapdash style
we walked back to the original rock crystal he had become,
all concern, all fears for us.
We went down gently
to the bottom-most step. There you can grieve and breathe,
rinse your possessions in the chilly spring.
Only beware the bears and wolves that frequent it
and the shadow that comes when you expect dawn.
.
posted by languagehat at 8:05 AM on September 4, 2017 [2 favorites]
We were warned about spiders, and the occasional famine.
We drove downtown to see our neighbors. None of them were home.
We nestled in yards the municipality had created,
reminisced about other, different places—
but were they? Hadn’t we known it all before?
In vineyards where the bee’s hymn drowns the monotony,
we slept for peace, joining in the great run.
He came up to me.
It was all as it had been,
except for the weight of the present,
that scuttled the pact we had made with heaven.
In truth there was no cause for rejoicing,
nor need to turn around, either.
We were lost just by standing,
listening to the hum of wires overhead.
We mourned that meritocracy which, wildly vibrant,
had kept food on the table and milk in the glass.
In skid-row, slapdash style
we walked back to the original rock crystal he had become,
all concern, all fears for us.
We went down gently
to the bottom-most step. There you can grieve and breathe,
rinse your possessions in the chilly spring.
Only beware the bears and wolves that frequent it
and the shadow that comes when you expect dawn.
.
posted by languagehat at 8:05 AM on September 4, 2017 [2 favorites]
.
posted by but no cigar at 10:22 AM on September 4, 2017
posted by but no cigar at 10:22 AM on September 4, 2017
Breathlike
Just as the day could use another hour,
I need another idea. Not a concept
or a slogan. Something more like a rut
made thousands of years ago by one of the first
wheels as it rolled along. It never came back
to see what it had done, and the rut
just stayed there, not thinking of itself
or calling attention to itself in any way.
Sun baked it. Water stood, or rather sat
in it. Wind covered it with dust, then blew it
away. Always it was available to itself
when it wished to be, which wasn't often.
posted by Joseph Gurl at 4:55 PM on September 4, 2017
Just as the day could use another hour,
I need another idea. Not a concept
or a slogan. Something more like a rut
made thousands of years ago by one of the first
wheels as it rolled along. It never came back
to see what it had done, and the rut
just stayed there, not thinking of itself
or calling attention to itself in any way.
Sun baked it. Water stood, or rather sat
in it. Wind covered it with dust, then blew it
away. Always it was available to itself
when it wished to be, which wasn't often.
posted by Joseph Gurl at 4:55 PM on September 4, 2017
John Ashbery in conversation with Bruce Kawin, WKCR radio, May 5, 1966 (transcript with link to audio), in which Ashbery gives a detailed explication of his poem "These Lacustrine Cities."
posted by Gerald Bostock at 9:55 PM on September 4, 2017 [2 favorites]
posted by Gerald Bostock at 9:55 PM on September 4, 2017 [2 favorites]
.
posted by flapjax at midnite at 2:50 AM on September 5, 2017
posted by flapjax at midnite at 2:50 AM on September 5, 2017
The LRB published more than fifty poems by him, the first of them in 1995, and they've temporarily taken down the paywall, so non-subscribers can read them too.
posted by languagehat at 8:03 AM on September 5, 2017 [2 favorites]
posted by languagehat at 8:03 AM on September 5, 2017 [2 favorites]
Alas. Safe journey, sir.
posted by Capt. Renault at 1:43 PM on September 5, 2017
posted by Capt. Renault at 1:43 PM on September 5, 2017
tributes to Ashbery at Frieze
also a bunch of audio of Ashbery reading over at PennSound
posted by juv3nal at 3:25 PM on September 12, 2017
also a bunch of audio of Ashbery reading over at PennSound
posted by juv3nal at 3:25 PM on September 12, 2017
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posted by vrakatar at 3:36 PM on September 3, 2017