The Gay Philosopher
You’re telling me:
chicanery, the moorhen,
the long triple happy fluid,
the orange response.
By golly that tastes good.
And to another land, more shy, in
any case more remote
nights are more reserved now.
By her coif shall she know you …
Error: a large sense of ennui,
such as apples, peaches, pears,
moved in as though to shut down the place,
inspissates, gladly, to bear right.
Dark Alibi
Saw it in some lowbrow bread-and-butter programmer—
enough excitement for one day, wondering what it was.
The question is whether or not there’s any rain
falling from those clouds.
You’re so clear here. You can’t not go through with it now,
and what topics there are! A sexy scream penetrates the
intellectual pillow fight guaranteeing further delays,
hedging. I know this! We’re not gonna pay for this!
Once a night at the safe side,
if you would well encounter it, it’s so breezy and nice.
I’ll do whatever it can,
and not do it on someone’s time,
or end up in a commercial. That said,
an unidentified rescue ship isn’t rushing up
the sleeves of one’s tennis shirt. They may be stones.
Put some of the stuff right on there.
Text Trek
If you say so, “boss,” I’ll retract my statement.
Only I wouldn’t be so radiant if I was you.
The ripple effect, strength in deterioration,
has expanded on more than a handful.
Have a good time,
just get out of the hurricane entrance. I’ll see you
there on all fives, explains Lucy.
A face named Al remarked on the long destiny
between veils, where nobody noodles too long
anyway. Less remarked on is the mask-laden buffet.
Angels wash their faces. Lady Godiva for one.
Leave some room for the astonishingly mild
ripple-effect milkweed fence. And say, once that has
lapsed, go on a trip right now. Don’t we have to register?
A slow branch is to be beheaded. Old trash,
what somebody said half a million times,
chimes farther down in the seat.
Unhouse the birds. Make your time over there
a ribald heraldry of number-coaching animals,
better early than never. Why, I thought so.
I was right about the comet
and the cement plant fluke, subway Grandma.
John Ashbery’s most recent book of poems is Breezeway (Ecco/HarperCollins). A two-volume set of his collected translations from the French (poetry and prose) was published in 2014 (Farrar, Straus and Giroux). He exhibits his collages at Tibor de Nagy Gallery in New York.
If you can’t stand the first person, / get out of the kitchen. / Similar but escalating sleights of hand: / he wants to eat both the girl and the food in her basket. / She is past specialness, / doubling the likelihood. In such young women, / traumas curl / till Christmas ribbon. The greatest predictor of red / is oxygen.
Excerpts from Ada Gay Griffin and Michelle Parkerson’s film A Litany for Survival, on the great American poet, Audre Lorde. Tributes and insights from the poet herself, friends and family on what it means to live in the heart.
A snow lark hovers over the isolated Isle of the Dead A shadow on the beach is an echo of Venus who bestows upon me some ripened red fruit In this isolated moment waves produce a dream that seduces me
Originally published in
Featuring interviews with Ryan Trecartin, Shezad Dawood, Sadie Benning, Wendy Ewald, Trevor Paglen, Jacob Appelbaum, Ivan Vladislavić, Álvaro Enrigue, Christopher Sorrentino, Vijay Iyer, and Yorgos Lanthimos.
Let me tell you first about what it was like being a Black woman poet in the ‘60s, from jump. It meant being invisible. It meant being really invisible. It meant being doubly invisible as a Black feminist woman and it meant being triply indivisible as a Black lesbian and feminist.
Audre Lorde
