And looked back on love

Hotel LautrĂ©amont, from 1992, is one of John Ashbery’s best books, in my opinion. These are my favorites. +++ STILL LIFE WITH STRANGER Come on, Ulrich, the great octagon of the sky is passing over us. Soon the world will have moved on. Your love affair, what is it but a tempest in a teacup? But such storms exclude strange resonance: The power of the Almighty reduced to its infinitesimal root hangs like the chant of bees, the milky drooping leaves of the birch on a windless autumn day — Call these phenomena or pinpoints, remote as the glittering trash…

And looked back on love

Hotel LautrĂ©amont, from 1992, is one of John Ashbery’s best books, in my opinion. These are my favorites. +++ STILL LIFE WITH STRANGER Come on, Ulrich, the great octagon of the sky is passing over us. Soon the world will have moved on. Your love affair, what is it but a tempest in a teacup? But such storms exclude strange resonance: The power of the Almighty reduced to its infinitesimal root hangs like the chant of bees, the milky drooping leaves of the birch on a windless autumn day — Call these phenomena or pinpoints, remote as the glittering trash…

A small poem I am loving

It is a lovely day in Hanover and this is a lovely poem I am loving while missing the people who make this town what it used to be for me. This Room by John Ashbery The room I entered was a dream of this room.Surely all those feet on the sofa were mine.The oval portraitof a dog was me at an early age.Something shimmers, something is hushed up. We had macaroni for lunch every dayexcept Sunday, when a small quail was inducedto be served to us. Why do I tell you these things?You are not even here.

A small poem I am loving

It is a lovely day in Hanover and this is a lovely poem I am loving while missing the people who make this town what it used to be for me. This Room by John Ashbery The room I entered was a dream of this room.Surely all those feet on the sofa were mine.The oval portraitof a dog was me at an early age.Something shimmers, something is hushed up. We had macaroni for lunch every dayexcept Sunday, when a small quail was inducedto be served to us. Why do I tell you these things?You are not even here.