John Ashbery
Self-Portrait in a Convex Mirror
As Parmigianino did it, the right hand Bigger than the head, thrust at the viewer And swerving easily away, as though to protect What it advertises. A few leaded panes, old beams, Fur, pleated
Farm Implements and Rutabagas in a Landscape
The first of the undecoded messages read: “Popeye sits In thunder, Unthought of. From that shoebox of an apartment, From livid curtain’s hue, a tangram emerges: a country.” Meanwhile the Sea Hag was relaxing
My Philosophy of Life
Just when I thought there wasn’t room enough For another thought in my head, I had this great idea Call it a philosophy of life, if you will. Briefly, It involved living the way
Glazunoviana
The man with the red hat And the polar bear, is he here too? The window giving on shade, Is that here too? And all the little helps, My initials in the sky, The
Syringa
Orpheus liked the glad personal quality Of the things beneath the sky. Of course, Eurydice was a part Of this. Then one day, everything changed. He rends Rocks into fissures with lament. Gullies, hummocks
Daffy Duck In Hollywood
Something strange is creeping across me. La Celestina has only to warble the first few bars Of “I Thought about You” or something mellow from Amadigi di Gaula for everything a mint-condition can Of
Just Walking Around
What name do I have for you? Certainly there is not name for you In the sense that the stars have names That somehow fit them. Just walking around, An object of curiosity to
For John Clare
Kind of empty in the way it sees everything, the earth gets to its feet andsalutes the sky. More of a success at it this time than most others it is. The feeling that
Into the Dusk-Charged Air
Far from the Rappahannock, the silent Danube moves along toward the sea. The brown and green Nile rolls slowly Like the Niagara’s welling descent. Tractors stood on the green banks of the Loire Near