Text/works

A Modern Poetry Library

John Ashbery: “The Skaters”

[from Rivers and Mountains, 1966]

– a critical and genetic digital edition –

Unpublished poems and fragments from the first typescript:

Poems of sleep

Three manuscripts and one typescript pages, letter format. Undated.

The beginning of the manuscript and the end of the typescript are missing.

Ashbery: “Poems of sleep,” manuscript, page 1

Ashbery: “Poems of sleep,” manuscript, page 2

Ashbery: “Poems of sleep,” manuscript, page 3

Ashbery: “Poems of sleep,” typescript, page 1

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		But is the egg suggesting the quietness
		honey is
		Of its forms. And the malt of sleep, beams
		its
		For this patronising dome.

		But sleep is on all fours,
		A beautifully written but inaccurate directive mined memoir charged with follies,
		A personal memento engraved in the sidewalk
		Tormenting the absolute future into lines of acceptance.
		Ready to dispatch the elegant part of this
		And all ears for the equation you remain on the sill
		Nothing is to be preferred to this sleep.
		Not a maze of dots guiding you you think nowhere
		At once the kindness and friendly clause

		And mouth of the sea applied to your side flank case
		yet
		Forever at odds with, and draining.

		This should be a letter telling you of changes
		Of desire throwing you a minute to one side
		pierced
		And then the other, like baby alligators in a box
		Of how this tossing looks harmonious from a distance
		Like the sea or the tops of trees, and how
		Only when one gets closer does is its sadness small and appreciable.
		I can be held in the hand.
		All this must go into a letter.
		Also the feeling of being lived
		The after-lunch thing, looking for people
		Who are out. And the gradual peace and relaxation
		That boils down, through rings of cold and fatigue
		At the end of day to a musical deposit.
		Smearing much of the day into fatigue
		away
		At finding you not in, bloody from beating doors in
		And scarcely incomprehensible.

		I meant to say these things
		If I had time. But an architecture of sighs
		For things we cannot afford built
		Made of
		Out of us like rain commands a view
		flat
		Of this plain. There's
		Nothing like it for not leading footsteps

		To its footman's empathy. with
		It
		And all destroyed. There is the attraction of this mucus
		But there is no personal involvement
		These sudden bursts of hot and cold
		(a)
		Are wreathed in shadowless intensity
		characteristics
		Whose moment saps them of all other qualities.
		rest
		Thus in beginning to be peace you at once know
		loss of motion
		The absurdity of any quietude
		It breaks open in still pieces
		Around the consumptive crown all the guests wear
		no information
		We can have know knowledge of this
		Only the crater of becoming — a sealed consciousness.

Poems of sleep

		In this hutment or abode I'll
		Invoke "mitred domes" and suchlike
		Awaking to this penitential psalm now
		That purgatory's violent, violet ways have ended
		In sleep and satisfaction for each one.
		I have decided to write you this poem of misdemeanors and small penalty.
		This volume is geometrical beauty,
		Its slabs cannot keep up with the hungering into breath
		And final dreams.

		But is the egg suggesting the quietness
		Of its forms. And sleep is beams
		For its patronising dome.

		But sleep is on all fours,
		A beautifully written but inaccurate
		Directive charged with {follies},
		A personal memento engraved o XX in the sidewalk.
		Tormenting the absolute future into lines of acceptance.
		Ready to dispatch the elegant part of this
		And all ears for the equation you remain on the sill:
		Nothing is to be prepared to for this sleep.
		At once the kindness and friendly clause
		And mouth of sea applied to your case
		Forever at odds with, and yet draining.

		This should be a letter telling you of changes
		Of desire throwing you a minute to one side
		And then the other like alligators
		Of how this tossing looks harmonious from a distance
		Like the sea or the tops of trees, and how
		Only when one gets closer is its sadness small and appreciable.
		It can be held in the hand.
		All this must go into a letter.
		Also the feeling of being lived, looking for people,
		And the gradual peace and relaxation
		That boils down, through rings of cold and fatigue
		Smearing much of the day into fatigue
		At finding you not in, bloody from beating doors in
		And incomprehensible.

		I meant to say these things
		If I had time. But an architecture
		Made of us like rain commands a view
		Of this its plain. There's nothing like itXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
		Nothing like it for not leading
		To its footman's empathy. It is the attraction of this mucus
		But there is no personal involvement
		These sudden bursts of hot and cold
		Are wreathed in shadowless intensity
		Whose moment saps them of all characteristics.
		Thus beginning to rest you at once know

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