Ashbery - Can you hear, bird : poems

ForHarry MathewsandMarie Chaix A loose and dispiriting wind took over from the grinding of traffic. Clouds from the distillery blotted out the sky. Ocarina sales plummeted. Believe you me it was a situation Aladdins lamp might have ameliorated. And where was I? Among architecture, magazines, recycled fish, waiting for the wear and tear to show up on my chart. Good luck, bonne chance. Remember me to the zithers and their friends, the ondes martenot.

Only I say: What comes this way withers automatically. And the fog, drastically. As one mercurial teardrop glozes an empires classified documents, so other softnesses decline the angles of the waiting. Tall, pissed-off, dressed in this days clothes, holding its umbrella, he half turned away with a shooshing sound. Said he needed us.

Over a cup of flaming tea, the ogre assessed my chances. Over a cup of flaming tea, the ogre assessed my chances.

Nothing in this blue vault belongs where you put it; therefore are you the dupe of its nonchalance. Try to wriggle free, remembering what the great collector said: Serenity is a mild bridle lending dignity to any occasion. The best truss is the severest, but your village ends where mine begins. Angry little houses litigate; the roof leaks. Present your wrist for stamping as you go out into the northwestern territories, otherwise well see whose absence becomes it. Daughters Tiffany and Brittany concurred.

There isnt much in the way of agony impeding the astral path you seek. On with the ways and the variance sequestered by others.

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 dont understand myself, only segments of myself that misunderstand each other, theres no reason for you to want to, no way you could even if we both wanted it. And the failing panopticon? That happened before, when my uncle was in his bathrobe, on vacation. And the failing panopticon? That happened before, when my uncle was in his bathrobe, on vacation.

Leastways, folks said it was a vacation Are you referring to your Uncle Obadiah, the one that spent twenty years in the drunk-tank and could whistle all the latest hits when sprung? No one ever cared to talk much about it, it seemed a little too peculiar, and he, he had forgotten the art of knowing how far to go too far. Just so. When driven, he would materialize in a Palm Beach suit and Panama hat with tiny rainbow holes in it. That was someone who knew how to keep up appearances until he had exhausted them. Some of the railroad crew got to know him at times, and could never figure out how he knew exactly when a storm would hit. And when its anthracitic orgasm erupted, we were out in the salley gardens mending coils from the last big one.

Such is my recollection. And vipers would pause to notice. Meanwhile he was acting more and more like a candidate. Then the wave of beach chairs crashed over us and there was nothing more to be said for it. The case was closed, it was history, he liked to say, as though that were a topic he could expand on if he chose, but it was more likely to be night, and no one could extricate it properly. Yet I had been told of an estimate.

Thats what we dont know! If only I could get my senses back in the right order, and had time to ponder this old message, I could have the sluice-gates opened in a jiffy. As it is, theyre probably more than a little rusty, and do we know, really know, as chasm-dwellers are said to know, which way is upstream?

So much energy deployed in circumnavigating the seers collisions! Dont do it yet, it hasnt happened. There is something in it. And if we were a guidepost, life would come along one day, verify its balance, then leave straight into the flustered ballooning of branches, hands on the long ramp leading to the restaurant with its coffee. Sure, its time we merged. There are no others to do it for us, we think were nice.

Thats why weve got to do it. It takes balls to do it and a heavy-duty sucker across the way. A snake will unplug the drain. The slate will light up and read itself.

How the past filled its designated space with every kind of drollery, so there were not just the things one knew about. Its the secret of my gospel, it can never be gone for too long or get too fancy.

Everybody wants to own a share in it! This, too, is impossible. I saw a woman in red move, come out from behind the brush. I saw ten milky-white puppy dogs who chanted at me: Youre a handful. I saw the spire of St. Dianas prick and light up the sky. Those were gnashed doldrums.

Down where the last coitus happened, another, a new madman in a cloak and hat, was rising with the moon. They dont let you off for these little things. Try imagining it. Yes but against the sofa of your captivating lens your appetites are wizard, dear. Lets give them all a chance.

The perfume climbs into my tree. The perfume climbs into my tree.

It is given to red-haired sprites: words that music expresses almost amply. The symphony at the station then, and all over people trying to hear it and others trying to get away. A trying situation, perhaps, yet no one is worse off than before. Horses slog through dirthell, its normal for em. And that summer cottage we rented onceremember how the bugs came in through the screens, and all was not as it was supposed to be? Nowadays people have cars for things like that, to carry them away, I mean, I suppose. And wherever man sets his giant foot petals spring up, and artificial torsos, dressmakers dummies.

And an ancient photograph and an ancient phonograph, that carols in mist. Pardon. The landlord locked us out.

know who you are), come back when youve aged a little, when the outdoors is an attractive curiosity no longer. Dont get me wrong, I like your waving turquoise mittens extantly. I must polish my speech, having spent a life watching old Steffi Duna movies, and being warned about the consequences.

It seems I should pass; theres only one essay question, and it can be about anything you like. Yet I hesitate, like a spermatozoid thats lost its way and doesnt dare ask directions theyd club it if it did. Once youre en route it doesnt matter if you know, besides, anyway. Conversely the winter circuit closes down until some time in spring, but more likely forever. Signs of rot and corruption are everywhere and are even copied by the fashion-conscious. I must sugar my hair.

And my factotum? You said there was one more in your party. No one is in a hurry. Suddenly the day is crocus-sweet.

Only a breath of this region spindles me off and growing, yes, again. How fine to be late in the season where the hopeless hide their fetters in chains of golden hair. Its air wants nothing to do with any of us.

Yet if I am the strong man at the post office, as the clocks nine oclock tells me I am, why it will go better for the all of us in here. This living room he taunts me with. But everybody can see the sun, abashed and unashamed, pummeling through the rusted curtains. Pass me that box of gin, will you?

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