John Ashbery (in pieces)

Big Frank has been reading the poetry of John Ashbery. This is poetry that doesn't lend itself to themes, or (as Frost said of Stevens) bric-a-brac. This is poetry of a purer nature that can, if you allow it, wash over you like the waves of the ocean coming in and in: what does that mean? And what does it mean in connection with your thoughts of the last time you were in that ocean, and then the person with whom you were, or else not, and - don't forget about your towel and what's on it . . . back . . . on the beach. The beach of your youth? The beach as in skipping along in slow motion, or the beach as in this whale ain't going nowhere. OK, enough of that. Big Frank is not going to give entire poems but rather snippets, just a few favorite sections of John Ashbery poems - once you read them - you will have to have more (or else not).

from Grand Gallop

And now it is time to wait again.

Only waiting, the waiting: what fills up the time between?

It is another kind of wait, waiting for the wait to be ended.

Nothing takes up its fair share of time,

The wait is built into the things just coming into their own

Nothing is partially incomplete but the wait.

Invests everything like a climate.

What time of day is it?

Does anything matter?

Yes for you must wait to see what it is really like,

This event rounding the corner

Which will be unlike anything else and really

Cause no surprise: it's too ample.

from Worsening Situation

. . .

One day a man called while I was out
and left this message: "You got the whole thing wrong

From start to finish. Luckily there's still time.

To correct the situation, but you must act fast.

See me at your earliest convenience. And please

Tell no one of this. Much besides your life depends on it."

I thought nothing of it at the time. . . .

from A Man of Words

Those tangled versions of the truth are

Combed out the snarls ripped out

And spread around. Behind the mask

Is still a continental appreciation

Of what is fine, rarely appears and when it does is already

Dying on the breeze that brought to the threshold

Of speech. The story worn out from telling.

All diaries are alike, clear and cold, with

The outlook for continued cold. They are placed

Horizontal, parallel to the earth

Like the unencumbering dead. Just time to reread this

And post past slips fingers, wishing you were

there.