John Ashbery Quotes

That's why I quit and took up writing poetry instead. It's clean, it's relaxing, it doesn't squirt juice all over Something you were certain of a minute ago and now your own face Is a stranger and no one can tell you it's true. Hey, stupid!
John Ashbery (b. 1927), U.S. poet, critic. "Or In My Throat."
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There was calm rapture in the way she spoke Perhaps I would get over the way the joke Always turned against me, in the end.
John Ashbery (b. 1927), U.S. poet, critic. "The New Realism."
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You turn To speak to someone beside the dock and the lighthouse Shines like garnets. It has become a stricture.
John Ashbery (b. 1927), U.S. poet, critic. "Bird's-Eye View of the Tool and Die Co."
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The progress Is permanent like the preordained bulk Of the First National Bank Like fish sauce, but agreeable.
John Ashbery (b. 1927), U.S. poet, critic. "Otherwise."
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As the shade went up And the ambulance came crashing through the dust Of the new day, the moon and the sun and the stars, And the iceberg slowly sank In the volcano and the sea ran far away Yellow over the hot sand, green as the green trees.
John Ashbery (b. 1927), U.S. poet, critic. "The New Realism."
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Under and around the quick background, Surface is improvisation.
John Ashbery (b. 1927), U.S. poet, critic. "Bird's-Eye View of the Tool and Die Co."
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Blue hampers . . . Explosions, Ice . . . The ridiculous Vases of porphyry. All that our youth Can't use, that it was created for.
John Ashbery (b. 1927), U.S. poet, critic. "Our Youth."
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A knowledge that people live close by is, I think, enough. And even if only first names are ever exchanged The people who own them seem rock-true and marvelously self-sufficient.
John Ashbery (b. 1927), U.S. poet, critic. "The Ongoing Story."
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Long ago was the then beginning to seem like now As now is but the setting out on a new but still Undefined way.
John Ashbery (b. 1927), U.S. poet, critic. "Blue Sonata."
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And the immortal music of Chopin Which we had been discovering for several months Since we were fourteen years old. And coffee grounds, And the wonder of hands, and the wonder of the day When the child discovers her first dead hand.
John Ashbery (b. 1927), U.S. poet, critic. "Our Youth."
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