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Download Can You Hear, Bird by John Ashbery PDF

By John Ashbery

A 1995 selection of poems that reveals John Ashbery at his so much conversational, humorous, and surprising.

In are you able to listen, chicken, John Ashbery's 17th assortment, language is either a plaything and a sandbox. The poems are prepared now not within the order in their composition yet alphabetically, via the 1st letter of their titles, just like the smartly arrayed keys of a few remarkable Seussical software. In line after line, Ashbery demonstrates his alertness to language because it is spoken, heard, broadcast, and dreamed—and units himself the duty of rewriting, redefining, and revising the yankee idiom we expect we all know so good. are you able to listen, chicken is a decisive instance of the uniquely Ashberyan sensibility his many fanatics love, revealing a beneficiant and acute chronicler of the typical extraordinary, an observant and humane stand-up comedian, and an ear informed on deciphering our sleek world's beguiling polyphony.

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Wanted to absorb it, to get to the bottom and start all over again. A great anxiety about finishing and throwing it away, with an inch still in the bottom, the backwash. Who owns the creeks and waterways of this valley? The only legal course is midstream so that anglers can trout fish without trespass. Into the last glass, I stir the reindeer scat with a herding stick captured from the thaw. The water is an hourglass, and I write fast as I can before it runs dry. A glass of water from last glacier sits before you on the table, you gaze at the logo of an abundant flowing stream or the name of the spring which somehow sounds pure and far away as an iceberg, calved off and lassoed from the warming world.

Wanted to absorb it, to get to the bottom and start all over again. A great anxiety about finishing and throwing it away, with an inch still in the bottom, the backwash. Who owns the creeks and waterways of this valley? The only legal course is midstream so that anglers can trout fish without trespass. Into the last glass, I stir the reindeer scat with a herding stick captured from the thaw. The water is an hourglass, and I write fast as I can before it runs dry. A glass of water from last glacier sits before you on the table, you gaze at the logo of an abundant flowing stream or the name of the spring which somehow sounds pure and far away as an iceberg, calved off and lassoed from the warming world.

White wings spread behind the locust tree. Cup in the booth, finger streaks of Irish Rose on the walls. Tintype of man with hand on his heart. My other hand is on the daguerreotypes, my eyes on a cloth monkey dressed in a suit and tie. The cup on top of the time machine makes a composition; What is a receiver? A cradle? ” The coin slot is a finger dip into the dark. Where are the cool blue mint hoods of Brazil? Coffee cups brace the sides Drunk pisses enough to drown the flame No one touches without tissue “Mary had a little lamb,” were the first words.

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