#josh ashbery

[fastrygajezyka]

Paradoksy i oksymorony

W wierszu chodzi o język na bardzo zwykłym poziomie. Spójrz tylko, jak mówi do ciebie. Wyglądasz przez okno albo Udajesz, że sobie nie możesz znaleźć miejsca. Masz go, ale go nie masz. Nie natrafiasz na niego, on do ciebie trafia. Chybiacie się nawzajem.

Wiersz jest smutny, bo chciałby być twój, a nie może. Co to jest zwykły poziom? Właśnie to, i jeszcze inne rzeczy, Włączenie w grę całego ich systemu. W grę? No, właściwie tak, ale grę uważam za głębszą

Z zewnętrznych spraw, za wzór, za rolę, w której się marzy, Tak jak te długie sierpniowe dni, bez żadnego dowodu Mieszczące się w dziale łaski. Coś bez finału, co, zanim Spostrzeżesz, gubi się w kłębach pary i trajkocie maszyn do pisania.

Ta gra się powtarza. Istniejesz chyba tylko po to, Żeby drażnić się ze mną, póki jej nie podejmę na swoim poziomie, A wtedy znikać albo zmieniać nastawienie. A wiersz tymczasem Postawił mnie już po cichu przy tobie. Wiersz jest tobą.

Josh Ashbery

tłumaczenie Stanisław Barańczak

[wanderlust-kml-blog]

“How many people came and stayed a certain time, Uttered light or dark speech that became part of you Like light behind windblown fog and sand Filtered and influenced by it, until no part Remains that is surely you.” ― John Ashbery

[erinlyndalmartin]

What Is Poetry by John Ashbery

The medieval town, with frieze Of boy scouts from Nagoya? The snow

That came when we wanted it to snow? Beautiful images? Trying to avoid

Ideas, as in this poem? But we Go back to them as to a wife, leaving

The mistress we desire? Now they Will have to believe it

As we believed it. In school All the thought got combed out:

What was left was like a field. Shut your eyes, and you can feel it for miles around.

Now open them on a thin vertical path. It might give us--what?--some flowers soon?

[livefromthenypl]

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.

This Room by our September 19th guest John Ashbery!

[gambleitaway-blog]

Instead of Losing (John Ashbery)

Anyone, growing up in a space you hadn't used yet would've done the same: bother the family's bickering to head straight into the channel. My, those times crackled near about us, from sickly melodrama instead of losing, and the odd confusion... confusion. I thought of it then, and in the mountains. During the day we perforated the eponymous city limits and then some. No one knew all about us but some knew plenty. It was time to leave that town for an empty drawer into which they sailed. Some of the eleven thousand virgins were getting queasy. I say, stop the ship! No can do. Here come the bald arbiters with their eyes on chains, just so, like glasses. Heck, it's only a muskrat that's seen better years, when things were medieval and gold... So you people in the front, leave. You see them. And you understand it all. It doesn't end, night's sorcery notwithstanding. Would you have preferred to be a grownup in earlier times than the child can contain or imagine? Or is right now the answer—you know, the radio we heard news on late at night, our checkered fortunes so pretty. Here's your ton of plumes, and your Red Seal Records. The whole embrace.