Written by
John Ashbery |
Kind of empty in the way it sees everything, the earth gets to its feet andsalutes the sky.
More of a success at it this time than most others it is.
The feeling that the sky might be in the back of someone's mind.
Then there is no telling how many there are.
They grace everything--bush and tree--to take the roisterer's mind off his caroling--so it's like a smooth switch back.
To what was aired in their previous conniption fit.
There is so much to be seen everywhere that it's like not getting used to it, only there is so much it never feels new, never any different.
You are standing looking at that building and you cannot take it all in, certain details are already hazy and the mind boggles.
What will it all be like in five years' time when you try to remember? Will there have been boards in between the grass part and the edge of the street? As long as that couple is stopping to look in that window over there we cannot go.
We feel like they have to tell us we can, but they never look our way and they are already gone, gone far into the future--the night of time.
If we could look at a photograph of it and say there they are, they never really stopped but there they are.
There is so much to be said, and on the surface of it very little gets said.
There ought to be room for more things, for a spreading out, like.
Being immersed in the details of rock and field and slope --letting them come to you for once, and then meeting them halfway would be so much easier--if they took an ingenuous pride in being in one's blood.
Alas, we perceive them if at all as those things that were meant to be put aside-- costumes of the supporting actors or voice trilling at the end of a narrow enclosed street.
You can do nothing with them.
Not even offer to pay.
It is possible that finally, like coming to the end of a long, barely perceptible rise, there is mutual cohesion and interaction.
The whole scene is fixed in your mind, the music all present, as though you could see each note as well as hear it.
I say this because there is an uneasiness in things just now.
Waiting for something to be over before you are forced to notice it.
The pollarded trees scarcely bucking the wind--and yet it's keen, it makes you fall over.
Clabbered sky.
Seasons that pass with a rush.
After all it's their time too--nothing says they aren't to make something of it.
As for Jenny Wren, she cares, hopping about on her little twig like she was tryin' to tell us somethin', but that's just it, she couldn't even if she wanted to--dumb bird.
But the others--and they in some way must know too--it would never occur to them to want to, even if they could take the first step of the terrible journey toward feeling somebody should act, that ends in utter confusion and hopelessness, east of the sun and west of the moon.
So their comment is: "No comment.
" Meanwhile the whole history of probabilities is coming to life, starting in the upper left-hand corner, like a sail.
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Written by
Mother Goose |
As little Jenny Wren
Was sitting by her shed.
She waggled with her tail,
And nodded with her head.
She waggled with her tail,
And nodded with her head,
As little Jenny Wren
Was sitting by the shed.
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Written by
Mother Goose |
Little Jenny Wren fell sick,
Upon a time;
In came Robin Redbreast
And brought her cake and wine.
"Eat well of my cake, Jenny,
Drink well of my wine.
"
"Thank you, Robin, kindly,
You shall be mine.
"
Jenny she got well,
And stood upon her feet,
And told Robin plainly
She loved him not a bit.
Robin being angry,
Hopped upon a twig,
Saying, "Out upon you! Fie upon you!
Bold-faced jig!"
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Written by
Mother Goose |
'Twas once upon a time, when Jenny Wren was young,
So daintily she danced and so prettily she sung,
Robin Redbreast lost his heart, for he was a gallant bird.
So he doffed his hat to Jenny Wren, requesting to be heard.
"Oh, dearest Jenny Wren, if you will but be mine,
You shall feed on cherry pie and drink new currant wine,
I'll dress you like a goldfinch or any peacock gay,
So, dearest Jen, if you'll be mine, let us appoint the day.
"
Jenny blushed behind her fan and thus declared her mind:
"Since, dearest Bob, I love you well, I'll take your offer kind.
Cherry pie is very nice and so is currant wine,
But I must wear my plain brown gown and never go too fine.
"
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