By John Ashbery
Thrill of a Romance
It's varied if you have hiccups.
every thing is—so many blissful fingers competing
in your consciousness, a headband, a pant of soot,
or simply a blast of silence from a radio.
what's it? That's so you might examine
on your dismay whilst, on the finish of a protracted queue
within the cafeteria, tray in hand, they let you know the gate closed down
after the second one international warfare. Syracuse was once declared capital
of a kingdom in malaise, however the directorate
had different, hidden objectives. To proclaim common sense
a casualty of fact was once one.
Everyone's solitude (and ensuing promiscuity)
perfumed the byways of villages we had inspiration civilized.
I observed you watching for a streetcar and pressed ahead.
unluckily, you have been just a baby in armor. Now whilst ribald toasts
sail around a desk too reasonable laid out, why the results
are just airborne dirt and dust, sickness and previous age. friendly stories
are only that. So I channel no matter what
into my contingency, a vein of mercury
that retains breaking out, greater up, extra on time
whenever. Dirndls noticed with out of date vegetation,
worn within the urban back, advertise open discussion.
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Additional resources for A Worldly Country: New Poems
In heavy armor’s care the suitors advanced temporarily. Was it a comment on today’s mistrustingness, some “moreover”? These are clad in various ﬂeeting robes that the tenor knows, as he sees them. Songs are sung by this counterfeit contralto to words written down, and in tomorrow’s haste forgotten. So much for our sham naturalism, ego, my brother, faster of us two. Of what? Let me then ask you, as tide picks up tab, river that between us grew, mere commentary on agile literary thoughts’ dustbin commonplaces.
Not when, but if. But we’ll know it before it happens—we’ll recognize us from the way we look at each other, not from any urgent movement forward or anything like that. 22 Casuistry The false dawn had been implicated, its circularity seen as a rebuke to honest folks, a third largest city of the brain. Others were quick to join the fray. It wasn’t our fault that so many appeared specious in the waning light of February: Who, indeed, would they appeal to? There were no precedents for its apparent soundness, not yesterday’s dribs and drabs, the remnants of someone else’s feast, I’d wager.
We had to get back inside. The clock was on the verge of striking. And you know something, it never did! Not while I was there, anyway. There were shouts, always the same, unusable shouts and an angry wind starting up in the hedges but unable to articulate, like me and the other guests. Again it was time to ﬂee. A lake of brambles offered itself like a protective cushion to the outsider, you and me. This had been foreseen, but like a migration, took on another sense as it unfolded, the sky Royal Worcester by now, a narrative that will endure for many years, even if no one reads it.
A Worldly Country: New Poems by John Ashbery