This 16th collection by the author contains 59 comic and lyrical poems, including the 13-part title-poem. John Ashbery was awarded the Pulitzer Prize, the National Book Critics Circle Award and the National Book Award for Self-Portrait in a Convex Mirror.
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.
last of today's harvest came to me in the cupped starlight. i have not visited ashbery since studying self-portrait all those years ago, where i had filed him away under the category of "difficult & reflexive poets," the kind that thinkers & tinkerers can make much of. i have just forgotten the how. this book contains gently & generously the movement from x to y, the movement of mind over world, and the movement of phenomena away from perception. the latter is particularly lovely as ashbery logs the sleights of hand that snatch the "lodestar" from under your nose & you feel no heavier for it. it all goes down easy & so movingly, the way life might accumulate and dissipate, as it tends to do around human shores.
"they wouldn't believe you anyway--it's just / that my mind is full of eyes, days like this."
The only one of these poems that I actually liked was the one that was just a list of titles. Otherwise, this book was utterly mystifying. Not only did it not make sense, there was no sense *to* be made. No amount of effort would be sufficient to interpret these poems. You could arbitrarily change any word or any line in any of them, and it wouldn't make any difference. Maybe that's intentional, but it seems like the opposite of how poetry is supposed to work. I honestly don't understand how anyone could enjoy reading this kind of poetry.
maybe it was just me, but a lot of this felt like nonsense, and not the whimsical fun kind. so many lines seems completely random and separate from the rest of the poem, like it was only added to make it feel obscure and niche. it just wasn’t for me.
it took me over a week to read this because i just couldn’t get into it
A vastly underrated collection by Ashbery. This book is lovely. Like sunlight, like a warm bath, coziness. There is the sense, page after page, of a feeling of joy not only in the language, but in the things the language indicates. Free nail polish. Gummed reinforcements. Pleasure boats. Sheer loveliness. And the title long poem is a stunner.
The title poem is shallow and deprived of imagination which is critical for a good poet. The use of words or language is reckless and without careful consideration or examination. Some lines are great but in general it’s nit so different than the tennis court oaths
It would take a re-read to know if I missed something, but I found large sections of the language to be tortured to no stylistic or meaningful end. There were several moments where things did resolve vividly, but they came too infrequently for me.
If you're not familiar with Ashbery's poetry, and you read a lot of poetry, you'll find his stuff very different and hopefully refreshing. It's not linear; it's narrative in a strange way, the way dreams jump around from image to image, topic to topic. It seems very stream-of-consciousness, but impersonal and therefore open to whatever interpretation you might want to bring to the table. On my first introduction to Ashbery, years ago, I hated his work because it "didn't make sense" and "didn't tell a story". I was wrong. Many of these poems can make sense and tell a story if you're willing to suspend judgment and enjoy his use of language. Now that I have more experience reading and writing poetry, I see Ashbery's work as brilliant, even though at first glance it's easy to label it nonsensical or deliberately obtuse. He's really impossible to imitate, or at least to imitate well. I know no one else who writes like this. His work isn't easy, but it has a great sense of humor and can touch deep emotion with what it triggers as you read. When the world doesn't make sense, Ashbery is a great touchstone, reminding you that not everything needs to "make sense" or be completely clear to be resonant mentally and emotionally. Well worth the work it takes to read. And if you're not "into" poetry, you may enjoy Ashbery more, simply because he takes off in such surprising and unpredictable directions. However, I'm sure there are many who read one poem, go "this is weird, I don't get it", and never dig any further. I'm glad I persisted. This is a book of poetry to go back to as inspiration for the imagination and the unconscious voice popping up out of seemingly nowhere. Ashbery makes what he does look and sound easy - but it's not.
At once accessible and difficult, Ashbery is an inventive and calculating poet, worthy of the praise he receives. This is the first of his books I've read--the imagery can be difficult to piece together, a search for continuity of ideas from line to line can be disorienting. But the language feels incredibly measured, precise, and stressed over, each line not one syllable short or long. The standout of the collection is the final, title poem, a long, thoughtful collection of images and ideas, with a steady wash of perplexing and beautiful imagery. A poet who asks just all the right questions in his own way.
Every visit to Cape Cod, I try to read some Ashbery. Every time I am perplexed. The guy can obviously write extremely well, magnificent control, ambitious intention, huge and impressive word-hoard immaculately wielded. And still it all adds up to remarkably little. In the words of J. Ashbery, "His tangling so flummoxed him,/ all he said was "Boats along the way." I think I need poetry to say a bit more to me than "Boats along the way." Although I quite enjoy that as a phrase to take from maritime Cape Cod. Next year, the break-through. Now back to the unopaque wordcraft of Dylan Thomas. You know where you are with Dylan Thomas.
“We sure live in a bizarre and furious galaxy, but now it’s up to us to make it into an environment for maps to sidle up to, as trustingly as leeches. Heck, put us on the the map, while you’re at it. That way we can smoke a cigarette, and stay and sway, shooting the breeze with night and her swift promontories.”