Myrtle
from "And The Stars Were Shining" (1994)
How funny your name would be
if you could follow it back to where
the first person thought of saying it,
naming himself that, or maybe
some other persons thought of it
and named that person. It would
be like following a river to its source,
which would be impossible. Rivers have no source.
They just automatically appear at a place
where they get wider, and soon a real
river comes along, with fish and debris,
regal as you please, and someone
has already given it a name: St. Benno
(saints are popular for this purpose) or, or
some other name, the name of his
long-lost girlfriend, who comes
at long last to impersonate that river,
on a stage, her voice clanking
like its bed, her clothing of sand
and pasted paper, a piece of real technology,
while all along she is thinking, I can
do what I want to do. But I want to stay here.
Won’t delve in too deep, as writing critically about a figure as monolithic as Ashbery still feels too much like facing down Giannis in the post to be enticing. But I must say that it is difficult to recall any post-war writer who is able to so effectively evoke the shrouds and ruptures of distraction and fancy that colour the process of the human mind consciously thinking in time. 'Flow Chart' and its intimately heroic breadth emerges as somewhat reflective of the tone and mystery of the collection as a whole. Was really taken by how its epic length gradually ceded a growing degree of drift and ellipsis in the sentences, so that any desire for a destination became somewhat of a pillowy irrelevance.
If this doesn’t sound like your bag then I doubt that any more selling will win you over. But the most bracing poems in this collection consistently provide a heady pleasure in finding yourself lost that no other contemporary writer has quite approximated since. Whilst sometimes frustrating and vagarious, the journey is to some degree akin to being blasted off your feet by a deluge of floodwater whilst standing in your bedroom, and to find, after picking yourself up, that long unseen tokens of the banal and the intimate have been upturned and pooled together for your reinvigorated contemplation.