By John Ashbery
Thrill of a Romance
It's diversified when you've got hiccups.
every little thing is—so many completely happy arms competing
to your recognition, a headscarf, a pant of soot,
or simply a blast of silence from a radio.
what's it? That's that you can study
in your dismay whilst, on the finish of a protracted queue
within the cafeteria, tray in hand, they inform you the gate closed down
after the second one international struggle. Syracuse was once declared capital
of a country in malaise, however the directorate
had different, hidden targets. To proclaim good judgment
a casualty of fact was once one.
Everyone's solitude (and ensuing promiscuity)
perfumed the byways of villages we had concept civilized.
I observed you anticipating a streetcar and pressed ahead.
unfortunately, you have been just a baby in armor. Now whilst ribald toasts
sail around a desk too reasonable laid out, why the implications
are just dirt, sickness and outdated age. friendly stories
are only that. So I channel no matter what
into my contingency, a vein of mercury
that retains breaking out, larger up, extra on time
whenever. Dirndls noticed with out of date plants,
worn within the urban back, advertise open discussion.
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Extra resources for A Worldly Country: New Poems
Luckily few of them knew, since none came, or was it my imagination? Were the halls full of people? Was I crying, was my little daughter being sent away to a boarding school in the North? Her peach-blow cheeks and rose-colored satin bodice indicated secret grief, which was now ﬂooding the place. 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.
We waited for you. I loved you, and these were the consequences: bright nights, lit sea, buttered roofs, dandelion breath. The dream of seeing it all. Next year let’s live in harm’s way, under the big top. Incongruous, blue will ﬁnd us, and the sun. Like the growl of a friendly dog it backs up, shivers itself out of here . . “Never heard . . ” 43 They Are Still Rather Lovely Ovid, in the infomercial, starts to monitor his pain, then gives up trying. A second later the image is lost through a nearly opaque glass transom.
New factors have entered the equation, but the surround is as messy as ever and still limitless. The one district that accepts these excuses is strange to us. Hanging out with Baptists, drinking temperance beverages, is another kind of education, to which one grows accustomed during the autumn nights. It comes as no surprise to learn that winter is on the way, with headlands and diamond aigrettes. And the lightness. Still hungry? Read on. A group of wilted children poured the tar from where it looked out on a ﬁlm of ashes to the horizontal bars.
A Worldly Country: New Poems by John Ashbery