Wakefulness: Poems Read online

  Wakefulness

  Poems

  John Ashbery

  For Jim and Dara

  Contents

  Publisher’s Note

  Wakefulness

  Baltimore

  Palindrome of Evening

  Cousin Sarah’s Knitting

  Last Night I Dreamed I Was in Bucharest

  Added Poignancy

  Quarry

  Laughing Gravy

  From Such Commotion

  Moderately

  Alive at Every Passage

  The Burden of the Park

  At the Station

  Another Kind of Afternoon

  Tangled Star

  Deeply Incised

  Tropical Sex

  The Friend at Midnight

  Stung by Something

  The Last Romantic

  Shadows in the Street

  The Earth-Tone Madonna

  Dear Sir or Madam

  The Laughter of Dead Men

  Discordant Data

  Bogus Inspections

  Floatingly

  Tenebrae

  Outside My Window the Japanese

  Any Other Time

  Probably Based on a Dream

  The Village of Sleep

  In My Head

  The Spacious Firmament

  Proximity

  Going Away Any Time Soon

  Like America

  New Constructions

  Whiteout

  A French Stamp

  One Man’s Poem

  The Pathetic Fallacy

  From Old Notebooks

  Many Colors

  Autumn in the Long Avenue

  Snow

  Within the Hour

  The Dong with the Luminous Nose

  Come On, Dear

  Gentle Reader

  Homecoming

  About the Author

  Publisher’s Note

  Long before they were ever written down, poems were organized in lines. Since the invention of the printing press, readers have become increasingly conscious of looking at poems, rather than hearing them, but the function of the poetic line remains primarily sonic. Whether a poem is written in meter or in free verse, the lines introduce some kind of pattern into the ongoing syntax of the poem’s sentences; the lines make us experience those sentences differently. Reading a prose poem, we feel the strategic absence of line.

  But precisely because we’ve become so used to looking at poems, the function of line can be hard to describe. As James Longenbach writes in The Art of the Poetic Line, “Line has no identity except in relation to other elements in the poem, especially the syntax of the poem’s sentences. It is not an abstract concept, and its qualities cannot be described generally or schematically. It cannot be associated reliably with the way we speak or breathe. Nor can its function be understood merely from its visual appearance on the page.” Printed books altered our relationship to poetry by allowing us to see the lines more readily. What new challenges do electronic reading devices pose?

  In a printed book, the width of the page and the size of the type are fixed. Usually, because the page is wide enough and the type small enough, a line of poetry fits comfortably on the page: What you see is what you’re supposed to hear as a unit of sound. Sometimes, however, a long line may exceed the width of the page; the line continues, indented just below the beginning of the line. Readers of printed books have become accustomed to this convention, even if it may on some occasions seem ambiguous—particularly when some of the lines of a poem are already indented from the left-hand margin of the page.

  But unlike a printed book, which is stable, an ebook is a shape-shifter. Electronic type may be reflowed across a galaxy of applications and interfaces, across a variety of screens, from phone to tablet to computer. And because the reader of an ebook is empowered to change the size of the type, a poem’s original lineation may seem to be altered in many different ways. As the size of the type increases, the likelihood of any given line running over increases.

  Our typesetting standard for poetry is designed to register that when a line of poetry exceeds the width of the screen, the resulting run-over line should be indented, as it might be in a printed book. Take a look at John Ashbery’s “Disclaimer” as it appears in two different type sizes.

  Each of these versions of the poem has the same number of lines: the number that Ashbery intended. But if you look at the second, third, and fifth lines of the second stanza in the right-hand version of “Disclaimer,” you’ll see the automatic indent; in the fifth line, for instance, the word ahead drops down and is indented. The automatic indent not only makes poems easier to read electronically; it also helps to retain the rhythmic shape of the line—the unit of sound—as the poet intended it. And to preserve the integrity of the line, words are never broken or hyphenated when the line must run over. Reading “Disclaimer” on the screen, you can be sure that the phrase “you pause before the little bridge, sigh, and turn ahead” is a complete line, while the phrase “you pause before the little bridge, sigh, and turn” is not.

  Open Road has adopted an electronic typesetting standard for poetry that ensures the clearest possible marking of both line breaks and stanza breaks, while at the same time handling the built-in function for resizing and reflowing text that all ereading devices possess. The first step is the appropriate semantic markup of the text, in which the formal elements distinguishing a poem, including lines, stanzas, and degrees of indentation, are tagged. Next, a style sheet that reads these tags must be designed, so that the formal elements of the poems are always displayed consistently. For instance, the style sheet reads the tags marking lines that the author himself has indented; should that indented line exceed the character capacity of a screen, the run-over part of the line will be indented further, and all such runovers will look the same. This combination of appropriate coding choices and style sheets makes it easy to display poems with complex indentations, no matter if the lines are metered or free, end-stopped or enjambed.

  Ultimately, there may be no way to account for every single variation in the way in which the lines of a poem are disposed visually on an electronic reading device, just as rare variations may challenge the conventions of the printed page, but with rigorous quality assessment and scrupulous proofreading, nearly every poem can be set electronically in accordance with its author’s intention. And in some regards, electronic typesetting increases our capacity to transcribe a poem accurately: In a printed book, there may be no way to distinguish a stanza break from a page break, but with an ereader, one has only to resize the text in question to discover if a break at the bottom of a page is intentional or accidental.

  Our goal in bringing out poetry in fully reflowable digital editions is to honor the sanctity of line and stanza as meticulously as possible—to allow readers to feel assured that the way the lines appear on the screen is an accurate embodiment of the way the author wants the lines to sound. Ever since poems began to be written down, the manner in which they ought to be written down has seemed equivocal; ambiguities have always resulted. By taking advantage of the technologies available in our time, our goal is to deliver the most satisfying reading experience possible.

  WAKEFULNESS

  An immodest little white wine, some scattered seraphs,

  recollections of the Fall—tell me,

  has anyone made a spongier representation, chased

  fewer demons out of the parking lot

  where we all held hands?

  Little by little the idea of the true way returned to me.

  I was touched by your care,

  reduced to fawning excuses.

  Everything was spotless in the little house of our desire,

  the clock ticked
on and on, happy about

  being apprenticed to eternity. A gavotte of dust-motes

  came to replace my seeing. Everything was as though

  it had happened long ago

  in ancient peach-colored funny papers

  wherein the law of true opposites was ordained

  casually. Then the book opened by itself

  and read to us: “You pack of liars,

  of course tempted by the crossroads, but I like each

  and every one of you with a peculiar sapphire intensity.

  Look, here is where I failed at first.

  The client leaves. History goes on and on,

  rolling distractedly on these shores. Each day, dawn

  condenses like a very large star, bakes no bread,

  shoes the faithless. How convenient if it’s a dream.”

  In the next sleeping car was madness.

  An urgent languor installed itself

  as far as the cabbage-hemmed horizons. And if I put a little

  bit of myself in this time, stoppered the liquor that is our selves’

  truant exchanges, brandished my intentions

  for once? But only I get

  something out of this memory.

  A kindly gnome

  of fear perched on my dashboard once, but we had all been instructed

  to ignore the conditions of the chase. Here, it

  seems to grow lighter with each passing century. No matter how you twist it,

  life stays frozen in the headlights.

  Funny, none of us heard the roar.

  BALTIMORE

  Two were alive. One came round the corner

  clipclopping. Three were the saddest snow ever seen in Prairie City.

  Take this, metamorphosis. And this. And this. And this.

  If I’d needed your company,

  I’d have curled up long before in the clock of weeds,

  with only a skywriter to read by.

  I’d have laved the preface

  to the World’s Collected Anthologies,

  licked the henbane-flavored lozenge

  and more. I’m presuming,

  I know. And there are wide floodplains spotted with children,

  investing everything in everything.

  And I’m too shy to throw away.

  PALINDROME OF EVENING

  In other places where it was found

  necessary for there to be buttons, expectations were naturally higher, and higher,

  and higher.

  Here,

  a sow’s purse translates into a silk ear, and communications

  are jammed.

  No one takes hold any more.

  Look, the flower has escaped from its trellis,

  the bear goes down into the lake.

  In my second house rare footage

  of metempsychosis plays endlessly, like a tune

  variously tooted.

  I often feel I’m a buyer,

  but the painted carnival head reasons otherwise,

  badgers me. There is no release in sight,

  in the works, down the pike.

  Horrified spectators jam the football field;

  it was like night and day.

  We can’t go back to the restaurant;

  the roof is snatched away.

  What were expectations back then?

  Do we know how high the astronauts carried us,

  let us fall, bouncing for what seemed an eternity,

  until all was well again?

  I’ve got my cool

  in these pants, keeping it for you.

  COUSIN SARAH’S KNITTING

  You keep asking me that four times.

  Why trust me I think.

  There is, in fact, nobody here.

  Nobody in the past.

  Nobody to turn to for advice.

  A yellow flagpole rears thoughtfully.

  Now if you were that nice.

  He was pulled from space,

  as from a shark. After they examined him

  they let him go. What does that prove?

  And called him Old Hickory.

  As in hickory. No there were

  at that time none living

  out of a sideshow at the edge of a forest

  and were mistreated in proportion,

  with understanding, so they all grew

  into the shade and for once it seemed

  about right. Oh, call down to me.

  It seemed about right.

  Then there was something of a letdown.

  Patrol boats converged

  but it was decided that the…

  and could continue its voyage

  upriver

  to the point where it tails off

  and then there was a large misunderstanding.

  It was misunderstanding, mudsliding

  from the side where the thing was let in.

  And it was all goose, let me tell you,

  braised goose. From which a longing in the original

  loins came forward to mark you.

  So many brave skippers,

  such a long time at sea. But I was going

  to remind you of this new story

  I can’t remember, of the two chums meeting in the overfed waste land and it supported them. And one got

  off at the front. The other wandered for days and daze, and by the time nobody remembered it it was summer again

  and wandered around defensively. Sure the organ meat

  was pumping and somebody’s boy came up to the correct

  thing at the well head. Sure as you can claim Dixie your tax accountant

  wandered over the remaining riviera, all to be blue again. And the rascals…

  and I was going to say keep it. You can keep it.

  Granted she has no reputation, an eye

  here, another clovered savior here, they pretend to us, and it was time for the firemobile too.

  LAST NIGHT I DREAMED I WAS IN BUCHAREST

  seeking to convince the supreme Jester

  that I am indeed the man in those commercials.

  Simultaneously it peaked in Bolivia, the moon,

  I mean. Then we were walking over what seemed to be

  heather, or was called that. The downtown riot

  of free speech occurred. Plastered to its muzzle,

  Randy the dog’s decoding apparatus went astray.

  By then it was afternoon in much of the world;

  iced tea was served on vast terraces

  overlooking a crumbling sea. You can’t juggle

  four toddlers. Three is enough. Out of the beckoning

  sea they arrived, in white ruffles with black coin-dots

  attached; the lawn was closer to a farm

  this time; it mouthed “Farm.” Will vacuumed the whole of space

  as far as the mind-your-own-business wire stretched, that is,

  from Cadiz to Enterprise, Alaska. We thought we had seen a few new

  adjectives, but nobody was too sure. They might have been

  gerunds, or bunches of breakfast…

  ADDED POIGNANCY

  What could I tell you? I couldn’t tell you any other way.

  We, meanwhile, have witnessed changes, and now change

  floods in from every angle. Stop me if you’ve heard this one,

  but if you haven’t, just go about your business. I’ll catch up with you

  at the exit. Who are the Blands? The second change was perhaps nothing more than

  the possibility of changes, one by one, side by side, until the whole

  canyon was carpeted with them. Nice. Summer, it said,

  ever rested my mind. Something occurs everywhere then,

  an immediate engagement with the atmosphere

  we’d like to have around, but it was big, then, and obvious,

  and oh, this is for your pains. No, really. Take it. I insist.

  He thought if he lived amid leaves

  everything would su
rface again, by which he meant, balance out,

  only look what this random memory’s done to him!

  He eats no more, neither does he sleep. A permanent bell tone

  seems to create his hearing at each moment of his elevator. Obey. We’re

  in for it. There are no two ways about it. Wait—

  did I say two ways? That’s it! We’ll fix his wagon with too many ways—

  so it’ll be lopsided, with no judges to pay, and we can all go home.

  Sweetheart? I fancy you now—

  Hence it ends up with a scenario of them all getting paid,

  the bums, and walking out into the eternal twilight

  with gurus and girlfriends on their arms, one for each fist.

  I like that way about it. I’m making believe

  it never happened, that we got this way

  merely by having been here forever. Millions of languages

  became extinct, and not because there was nothing left to say in them,

  but because it was all said too well, with

  nary a dewdrop on the moment of glottal expulsion.

  But now I’ve got to go put out the signs on the chairs

  so folks’ll know when to stop, and where, really, only a poodle

  separates us from this life and the next.

  It will take us longer to get from here to there.

  And the cigar band is ecstatic,

  stunning in its mauve and gold obsolescence,

  an erratic bloom on sheer night, faintly deleterious …

  QUARRY

  I was lying, lying down,

  reading the last plays of Shakespeare.

  A brat came to me, eyes squealing,

  excitement its thing. Until I put two and two together

  I never crossed the inlet

  or realized what tributary meant.

  O we all have fine times

  in the spring she said.

  No one needs to know pretty much

  about that attitude I suppose,

  yet there are riders, and puzzles, and soon,

  baking at the long end of day

  a poor cloud measures its shadow,

  the intent of all those gone away.

  LAUGHING GRAVY

  The crisis has just passed.

  Uh oh, here it comes again,