“I like poems you can tack all over with a hammer and there
are no hollow places.” – John Ashbery
I’ve written of Ashbery before, but
wanted to share another of his poems. Ashbery, who turned 90 this summer, is one of
America’s greatest, having won nearly every major poetry award, including
the Pulitzer Prize, the National Book Award, the Griffin International Award,
and a MacArthur “Genius” Grant. To
spend a few hours immersed in language 
and its myriad possibilities, pick up a
copy of his Self-Portrait in a Convex
Mirror or the languid and moving Houseboat
Days.
and its myriad possibilities, pick up a
copy of his Self-Portrait in a Convex
Mirror or the languid and moving Houseboat
Days.
"Few poets have so cleverly
manipulated, or just plain tortured, our soiled desire for meaning,” noted
critic William Logan. “[Ashbery] reminds
us that most poets who give us meaning don't know what they're talking
about." Here for Saturday’s Poem is Ashbery’s,
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.
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.
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