A stunning new collection of poems by the award-winning poet and author of And the Stars Were Shining explores the themes of aging, childhood memories, and fantasy.
Formal experimentation and connection to visual art of noted American poet John Ashbery of the original writers of New York School won a Pulitzer Prize for Self-portrait in a Convex Mirror (1975).
From Harvard and Columbia, John Ashbery earned degrees, and he traveled of James William Fulbright to France in 1955. He published more than twenty best known collections, most recently A Worldly Country (2007). Wystan Hugh Auden selected early Some Trees for the younger series of Elihu Yale, and he later obtained the major national book award and the critics circle. He served as executive editor of Art News and as the critic for magazine and Newsweek. A member of the academies of letters and sciences, he served as chancellor from 1988 to 1999. He received many awards internationally and fellowships of John Simon Guggenheim and John Donald MacArthur from 1985 to 1990. People translated his work into more than twenty languages. He lived and from 1990 served as the Charles P. Stevenson Jr. professor of languages and literature at Bard college.
“I remember the world of cherry blossoms looking up at the sun and wondering, what have I done to deserve this or anything else?” from Vendanges.
I found this collection difficult to penetrate, over the month of reading these poems, I tried several angles to infiltrate the flow, I feel I failed. Perhaps another year!
Confounding, amusing and arch, these poems wrap their long lines around your brain and don't let go. Dream-like and surreal, Ashbery's poems have at their heart a core of wonderment in the world and a desire for powerful experience and connection, a desire to abate loneliness by engaging in the world or in one's projections of the world. You never know, when you start reading a poem by Ashbery, quite where you'll end up.
Absolutely gorgeous. Contains plenty of unforgettable vocabulary and images, and very approachable despite quite opaque structures and the frequent absence of ostensible meanings. The tone of the poems is often playful. Many of them juggle syntaxes as easily as they pivot between their subject matter. While this collection potentially offers many instances of profound, yet sober happiness, it encapsulates and bursts at the edges with a sad weariness and forlorn touch of estrangement.
So, clearly, John Ashberry was/is widely recognized as a poet of distinction and has been the recipient of many awards. The poetry in this collection certainly showed a strong sense of language and some fine imagery. I just didn't like it. To me, the poetry reads like word salads, with sentences and fragments strewn together to avoid meaning. For example: "That watery light, so undervalued except when evaluated, which never happens much, perhaps even not at all--I intend to conserve it."
I might have still enjoyed this poetry if it had had a sense of music to it, but I personally find the phrasing mostly pedestrian and not very rhythmical. Here's another example: "But how can I be in this bar and also be a recluse? The colony of ants was marching toward me, stretching far into the distance, where they were as small as ants. Their leader held up a twig as big as a poplar. It was obviously supposed to be for me. But he couldn't say it, with a poplar in his mandibles. Well, let's forget that scene and turn to one in Paris."
Perhaps Ashberry was trying to say something about language in general, because after reading a dozen or so his poems back to back, I turned to a regular prose story and found, for a moment, that I couldn't quite understand the flow of the words. I suppose that is an accomplishment, to impose his rhythm, or anti-rhythm on me for even a few seconds. It might have been accomplished at shorter length though; this is a long collection.
Please don't take my opinion here as any form of objective evaluation. This is how I felt about the poetry but many others seem to like his work and he has a much, much more extensive list of accomplishments than I do. Find out for yourself.
Have been recently going back through Ashberys that I’ve either neglected or wanted to reread. Especially the later collections, where he has gone full mad wizard mode. Non-sequiturs abound. He does whatever he wants. It’s poetry of a genius who is both in full command of his powers but also just wants to be silly. This collection begins with one of my all-time favorite poems: “This Room.” Is it a dream, is it a memory, is John just having a little fun while language is still there to have fun with? I don’t know. His older collections might have cemented him as one of if not the greatest american poet of the 20th century, but it’s in these older collections, beginning in the ~90s, where he truly showed us what poetry can be. It is not in some far off place, in an ivory tower, on the mantelpiece, next to a glass eye. It’s in the stuff we accidentally come upon, it’s the intimate phrases we mishear or else mis-say, it’s falling asleep with a book on your chest and letting its contents run amok in your dreams, whereupon waking up you mistake it all for a very close and dear memory…
This wasn't my most favorite poetry read ever but there were a few good lines here and there. Overall, I didn't have any poems that I loved enough to make a note of. It was a birthday gift to me by someone I care about so I wanted to at least try to read it through.
Reading Ashbery, to me, is like getting on a ride that makes you feel a little sick and disoriented when you stumble off it, yet is so fun you can't wait to get in line to ride it again as soon as you're done. He shakes up the brain quite nicely. These do have a sad/elegiac tone to them. My favorite poem here is "Merrily We Live", which ends:
"Today a stoat came to tea and that was so nice it almost made me cry -- look, the tears in the mirror are still streaming down my face as if there were no tomorrow. But there is one, I fear, a nice big one. Well, so long, and don't touch any breasts, at least until I get there."
The very first time I am putting down a book of poetry half read. Cant get into this one. But there were a few I liked from what I did manage to cover, one if which contains these lines:
"I know I'll have a chance to learn more Later on. Waiting is what's called for, meanwhile. It's true that life can be anything, but certain things definitely aren't it. This gloved hand, For instance, that glides So securely into mine, as though it intends to stay."
Enjoyed it slightly more than the two previous collections of poetry from Ashbery. But not enough to want to read the whole body of his work. A few poems here were good. Perhaps at another time in my life I will have a different reaction.
Book rating: 3.5 stars
Post Note: found it odd two lines repeated in different poems... Oh, I love you so much in such a little time. It seems a shame we have to go on living.