The Old Mule

John Ashbery Where Shall I Wander

I can think of no more decent repose than poetry, even in the heat of July. I used to write poems all through college on wide lined notebooks. I am not able to look at them now, sour wine. Painful time of life. The persistent wandering off of cliffs, the surprised look in mid-air, the synapses of reason when a person finds that things never really will be ok. But we have good lines to harness our human attentions. Ones from others caught in similar nets.

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by John Ashbery, from Where Shall I Wander

Composition

We used to call it the boob tube,
but I guess they don't use tubes anymore.
Whatever, it serves a small purpose after waking
and before falling asleep. Today's news—
but is there such a thing as news,
or even oral history? Yes, when you want to go back
after a while and appraise the accumulation
of leaves, say in a sandbox.
The rest is rented depression,
available only in season
and the season is always next month,
a pure but troubled time.

That's why I don't go out much, though
staying at home never seemed much of an option.
And speaking of nutty concepts, surely "home"
is way up there on the list. I feel more certain about "now"
and "then," because they are close to me,
like lovers, though apparently not in love with me,
as I am with them. I like to call to them,
and sometimes they reply, out of the deep business of some dream.

Unedited Thoughts on Saturday

I am not the type to frequent bars. Crowds undo my mental health. This weekend, however, I danced to a country band at a watering hole outside of Jacksonville. I held a big bosomed friend tight. It was a summer song, with cowboy hats bobbing over keyboards and fiddle bows fastened to strings. Her sateen dress slid against my navy suit; a scent lingered from the wedding bouquet, peppery tuberose.

We bought pitchers and whooped with fists to the ceiling. Dusty fans spun; a pool stick pierced the ceiling. Someone unleashed their bra. Darling, if you leave me, my rambling days are through (sang the band). My wife was intertwined, and I made my way. There is no romance like love among crowds.

A drunken loon all sweated-through starting buying beers. He curled through the place with stink and swagger, a loose-lipped man with heavy eyes, too long shoes, and a wallet skinny from spending. He summoned the tavern owner with planted fists. He wanted to make a deal, buy the joint. He was shook up in such a fury that he actually wanted ownership of the shadiest most plugged in guitar playing beer hole in Fernandina County.

The bar was off to the side of a Shoney’s restaurant. Ladies made their way through the buffet line as hulks crawled out on bloody knees. Locals lay prostrate on the floor and on out through the exit, all set to the gills with whiskey. The owner was a pony tailed salt, a real patriot, the kind with muscles, a slack jaw and no time for stomped on speed. He was not in the mood for negotiating. The spin of his life was half turned, about, and he had his eyes elsewhere. I heard the waitress say she was just in from Arkansas.

I walked home in a semi-straight line. I don’t take to drink, but the whole scene had me reeling. When you crawl up in a cave, you are bound to stir up bats. I have a good woman, gentlemen. A wonderful wife. Striking in clarity, a bear among wolves.

Current Events

We traveled south to visit friends and stroll through gardens. New Orleans is a humid toil, the serpentine tropics, oily with sea-matter, brine, cussing men and thin-skirted women. To get out of the rain, we browsed hand forged copper pots in the antique shop of a bow tied gentleman with a bulldog. He writes for fancy magazines and is a well-known food historian. He autographed his book for us with eloquent flair, and we spoke on the reinstitution of southeastern rice cultivation. The hurricane chased us home one day early, so all writing has been dismantled in my head.

The hurry home left some important bags unpacked. But this is a moment of work. Thirsty crooks robbed our restaurant for Pabst. The bastards. Alarms rang at six this morning. They broke in with a rock, smashing a huge window, messing the place terribly. The glass men arrived and informed us that the sill is rotting, and we have termites too. Rain came and wet the floor. We noticed missing checks. We may just place warm beer beside the road as an offering to the profligate transgressors. Oh, and for the pirate ghosts flown up from the gulf, a hogshead coin and a pint of something stronger.