POEMS by JOHN ASHBERYsolihullpoetry.weebly.com/uploads/4/3/4/6/4346349/week_6.pdf · 2017-11-07 · POEMS by JOHN ASHBERY (1927 – September 3, 2017 ) This Room The room I entered

POEMS by JOHN ASHBERY (1927 – September 3, 2017 )

This Room The room I entered was a dream of this room. Surely all those feet on the sofa were mine. The oval portrait of a dog was me at an early age. Something shimmers, something is hushed up.

We had macaroni for lunch every day except Sunday, when a small quail was induced to be served to us. Why do I tell you these things? You are not even here.

Life is a Dream A talent for self-realizationwill get you only as far as the vacant lotnext to the lumber yard, where they have rollcall.My name begins with an A,so is one of the first to be read off.I am wondering where to stand – could that group of threeor four others be the beginning of the line? Before I have the chance to find out, a rodent-likeman pushes at my shoulders. “It’s that way,” he hisses. “Didn’t they teach you anything at school? That a photographof anything can be real, or maybe not? The corner of the stove,a cloud of midges at dusk-time.” I know I’ll have a chance to learn morelater on. Waiting is what’s called for, meanwhile.It’s true that life can be anything, but certain thingsdefinitely aren’t it. This gloved hand,for instance, that glidesso securely into mine, as though it intends to stay

Strange Occupations

Once after school. hobbling from place to place, I remember you liked the dry kind of cookies with only a little sugar to flavor them.

I remember you liked Wheatena. You were the only person I knew who did. Don’t you remember how we used to fish for kelp? Got to the town with the relaxed, suburban name, remembering how trees were green there, greener than a sudden embarrassed lawn in April. How we would like to live there, and not in a different life, either. We sweltered along in our union suits, past signs marked ”Answer” and “Repent” and tried both, and other things.

Then – surprise! Velvet daylight came along to back us up, providing the courage that was always ours, had we but known how to access it downstairs.

We used to crawl to so many events together: a symphony of hogs in a lilac tree, and other, possibly more splendid, things until the eyelid withdrew.

Now I can sample your shorts. So much more is there for us now – runnels that threaten to drown the indifferent one who sticks his toe in them. Much, much more light.

To whose office shall we go tomorrow? I’d like to hear the new recording of clavier variations. Oh, help us someone! Put out the night and the fire, whose backdraft Is even now humming her old song of antipathies.

31t10t2017 ln Paris With You by James Fenton I Pluck That Poen

Pluck That Poem

30sEP2014

ln Paris With You by James Fenton

posted in Contemporarv Poetrv, V1ale Poets by eimerrvL _ J_

Don't talk to me of loue. l'rte had an earfulAnd I get tearful zohen l'tte dozoned a drink or tzoo.l'm one of your talking wounded.I'm a hostage. l'tn maroonded.Bttt I'm in Pnris with you.

Yes l'm angry nt the zoay I'tte been bamboozledAnd resentful at the mess I'ae been through.I ndmit l'm on the reboundAnd I don't care where are we bound.l'm in Paris with you.

Do you mind if we do not go to the LouareIf we say sod oJf to sodding Notre Dame,lf we skip the Champs ElysiesAnd remain here in this sleazy

Old hotel roomDoing this and thntTo what and whomLearning who you are,Learning what I am.

Don't talk to me of loae. Let's talk of Paris,The little bit of Paris in our ttiezu.There's that crack ncross the ceilingAnd the hotel walls are peelingAnd I'm in Paris with you.

Don't talk to me of loae. Let's talk of Paris.l'm in Paris with the slightest thing you do.l'm in Paris utith your eves, your mouth,l'm in Paris toith... all points south.Am I embarrassing rlou?I'm in Paris with you.

httos://ohlckthatooem.wordoress.com/2014l09130/in-oaris-with-vorr-bv-iames-fenton/