John Ashbery, who would have been 98 today, had this to say about understanding poetry: I don’t quite understand about understanding poetry. I experience poems with pleasure: whether I understand them or not I’m not quite sure. I don’t want to read something I already know or which is going to slide down easily: there has to be some crunch, a certain amount of resilience.

John Ashbery by Allen Ginsberg

Screen Dump 823

Voices bounce off buildings slated to be razed

punctuating thought bubbles

in the latest episode of your theatrics

about the one that got away

pieced together and understood, yes? . . .

The tape rewound back to the backyard

and the stairs leading to the basement

where words accompanied costumes

in arrays that spun us into constellations

of engagement . . . We were young . . .

The age-old drama

with you waving your magic wand

because if they can I can, yes? . . .

when all this and more were dished out

on paper plates with plastic utensils

that the resident hoarder insisted on keeping . . .

his life aclutter . . .

You have since applied for a sabbatical

to study abroad the waywardisms

of the porcelain-skinned . . .

a Proustian moment as indifferent as the runoff

riding a scattering of crumpled-up

brown paper bags . . . the instant Doppler

technology out to lunch . . . crossing a creek

on moss-covered stones, slipping into the current

with words resurrecting the events that shaped

the moments reopening the cold case . . .

Tim Walker