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    Breezeway: New Poems
    Breezeway: New Poems
    Breezeway: New Poems
    Ebook107 pages1 hour

    Breezeway: New Poems

    By John Ashbery

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    About this ebook

    A bold, striking new collection of poems from one of America’s most influential and inventive poets.

    With more than twenty poetry collections to his name, John Ashbery is one of our most agile, philosophically complex, and visionary poets. In Breezeway, Ashbery’s powers of observation are at their most astute; his insight at its most penetrating. Demonstrating his extraordinary command of language and his ability to move fluidly and elegantly between wide-ranging thoughts and ideas—from the irreverent and slyly humorous to the tender, the sad, and the heartbreaking—Ashbery shows that he is a virtuoso fluent in diverse styles and tones of language, from the chatty and whimsical to the lyrical and urbane. Filled with allusions to literature and art, as well as to the absurdities and delights of the everyday world around us, Ashbery’s poems are haunting, surprising, hilarious, and knowing all at once, the work of a master craftsman with a keen understanding of the age in which he lives and writes, an age whose fears and fragmentation he conjures and critiques with humor, pathos, and a provocative wit.

    Vital and imaginative, Ashbery’s poems not only touch on the “big questions” and crises of life in the twenty-first century, but also delicately capture the small moments between and among people. Imaginative, linguistically dazzling, and artistically ambitious, Breezeway is John Ashbery’s sharpest and most arresting collection yet.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherOpen Road Integrated Media
    Release dateMay 12, 2015
    ISBN9780062404886
    Breezeway: New Poems
    Author

    John Ashbery

    <p><strong>John Ashbery </strong>was born in Rochester, New York, in 1927. He wrote more than twenty books of poetry, including <em>Quick Question; Planisphere; Notes from the Air; A Worldly Country; Where Shall I Wander; </em>and <em>Self-Portrait in a Convex Mirror, </em>which received the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry, the National Book Critics Circle Award, and the National Book Award. The winner of many prizes and awards, both nationally and internationally, he received the Medal for Distinguished Contribution to American Letters from the National Book Foundation in 2011 and a National Humanities Medal, presented by President Obama at the White House, in 2012. Ashbery died in September 2017 at the age of ninety.</p>

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      Book preview

      Breezeway - John Ashbery

      THE DREAM OF A RAREBIT FIEND

      The fifty-foot old masterpiece, that awful necklace, is that good for you? I mean, do you like it any better? Treestumps?

      Oh, Mr. Salteena, dear, it’s good before anything else is. We’re not opening today. Her intentional steel embrace scuttled it. Which is not to say you’re not to proceed. On the contrary, we like you more than when we were at school, we and they. There are good times in everybody’s satchel, nor do we all get a free pass. That would be a split decision, as they call it. How else is the planned brotherhood to float forward?

      Watch her—she’ll donate a medal to the crowd for a flag. It’s why we call each other members. If we can get this stuff out of here, a little bit more power in the shins will come to seem appropriate. That’s your cue. Don’t let on I was here, helping with the tables sometimes. Ah it was awful the way they rushed him, past us and a few stragglers. We had been told to meet up with destiny at a corner of the fairgrounds, a pearl in fragments. It’s so fun. A dollop here, a mess of particles there. Not everyone sees it as you do, which is right for them, no matter what territory they own and at times wander back to, unthinking, forgetting if a lurid sky can be just one thing, or under certain conditions definitive.

      Why I never ...

      THE SAD THING

      He has a lazy father in Minnesota.

      I hope you never have to do this in life, with its crazy little darkened

      rooms. People are standing, an accurate jumble. Famille rose happy campers.

      And if the water tastes funny, she must be pretty young. That came from a tree.

      CHINESE FIRE DRILL

      OK, I said it. Sarabande. A dance no one dances anymore. Except maybe in heaven, where they don’t have better things to do. These clucks behind a fence ... Now, of course, I’ll have passed it on differently. They’re here, instead of just wondering what they’re doing. Gotta keep the red onion.

      You move a lot in a cab. Not to stand up and eat their community. A few scheduling disasters later the daughters came down to lift us off the shore. We were branded with the name Lot. The waves beat them to it. We renounced our offshore inheritance. Oh, what difference does it make when the most mutable among us augment the mystery beyond all proportion, so as to accept the thanks that ingratitude inevitably trails in its wake. For whatever reason.

      SEVEN-YEAR-OLD AUROCH LIKES THIS

      Will research tell us tomorrow

      of normal morals? Take a Brooklyn family

      in fracture mode, vivid,

      energizing, throbs to the earlobes. Thanks

      to a snakeskin toupee, my grayish push boots

      exhale new patina/prestige. Exeunt the Kardashians.

      Exit the emergency room. A nifty looking broad

      goes up to a goofy guy. (There’s the leader with its bow.)

      Well, I wouldn’t do it instantly. I’ll bring you some,

      uh, and well I’m dried.

      Antique mud wrestlers shape up

      for the last time, no scuttling of vain

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