Product Description

You meant more than life to me. I lived
through you not knowing, not knowing I
was living.
I learned that you called for me. I came to
where you were living, up a stair. There
was no one there.
No one to appreciate me. The legality of it
upset a chair. Many times to celebrate
we were called together and where
we had been there was nothing there,
nothing that is anywhere. We passed
obliquely,
leaving no stare. When the sun was done
muttering,
in an optimistic way, it was time to leave
that there.

-- from "The New Higher"

Product Details

• Amazon Sales Rank: #1214759 in Books
• Published on: 2005-03-01
• Format: Bargain Price
• Number of items: 1
• Binding: Hardcover
• 96 pages

From Publishers Weekly
This 23rd collection from Harold Bloom's favorite living American poet is a modestly scaled affair: it doesn't end with a grand long poem, which has become an Ashbery trademark since Rivers and Mountains, nor is it especially big like Can You Hear, Bird nor does it even contain many poems that extend more than three pages (the title poem, at seven pages, is the longest). The book as a whole takes the pleasures of games and makes of them poetic seductions; the adjective "Ashberian"—part Joseph Cornell, part Henry James, part Close Encounters—is perhaps the only one possible to describe the work at this point: "Another's narrative supplants the crawling/ stock-market quotes. Like all good things/ life tends to go on too long.../ Rains bathe the rainbow,/ and the shape of night is an empty cylinder,/ focused at us, urging its noncompliance/ closer along the way we chose to go." Perhaps his secret is in providing us with the experience of terrible encounter in the comfort of our own poem, one that we can choose to occupy for years, even after discovering the beating heart under the floorboards. (Mar. 1)
Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.

From Booklist
Ashbery expresses a sly playfulness, a tender theatricality, a surreal sensibility, and an urbane wit. With more than 20 poetry collections to his name, this master of the humorous meditation, this maestro of scintillating streams of consciousness, this perpetuator of the Wallace Stevens' school of philosophical reflection and manicured whimsy frolics in language as though words are flowers and each page is an exotic arrangement. For Ashbery, language is both artifice and life. His new poems are especially sharp, arch, and complexly moody. Rife with allusions to literature and art, they swing teasingly between the vernacular and the rarefied as Ashbery contrasts the more gracious past with the pressing present even as he mocks nostalgia. His characters (his poems are skits, fables, journal entries, and monologues) are full of longing and ruefulness as they reveal and conceal their feelings, performing parlor tricks of the soul to assuage their bruised hearts and fear of age and death. Mercurial, elegant, funny, and magical, these mind-bending and beautifully haunting poems are the knowing work of a virtuoso. Donna Seaman
Copyright © American Library Association. All rights reserved

About the Author

John Ashbery was born in Rochester, New York, in 1927. He earned degrees from Harvard and Columbia, and he traveled as a Fulbright Scholar to France in 1955. Best known as a poet, he has published more than twenty collections, most recently A Worldly Country (Ecco, 2007). His Self-Portrait in a Convex Mirror (Viking, 1975) won the three major American prizes: the Pulitzer, the National Book Award, and the National Book Critics Circle Award, and an early book, Some Trees, was selected by W. H. Auden for the Yale Younger Poets Series. He has served as executive editor of ARTnews and as the art critic for New York magazine and Newsweek. A member of the American Academy of Arts and Letters and the American Academy of Arts and Sciences, he was Chancellor of the Academy of American Poets from 1988 to 1999. The winner of many prizes and awards, both nationally and internationally, he has received two Guggenheim Fellowships and was a MacArthur Fellow from 1985 to 1990. His work has been translated into more than twenty languages. He lives in New York.

Customer Reviews

The Wonders of Wandering: Ashbery's New Poems
It would be easy to review this book in light of Mr Ashbery's pre-eminent position in contemporary American poetry, sprinkling references to the dazzling virtuosity that has filled each of his more than twenty books of poetry. WHERE SHALL I WANDER follows in the sparkling wake of Mr Ashbery's previous books as surely (to borrow his phrase) "as umbrellas follow rain." But there's more to this collection than merely crowning his previous efforts. In WHERE SHALL I WANDER, an awareness of age--and the spirit's stubborn resistance to it--emerge in passages that glide by us, offering up no wisdom, no pat rational answers for a life lived largely in the shadow of a mountain of experience. In the end, what holds these poems together, despite their inherent intent to separate, is the reader, and this permits each of us to identify with the author in ways no other poet permits. Much has been made of Mr Ashbery's obscurity and impersonality. But, as time goes by and Mr Ashbery's ouvre increases, he has emerged as neither obscure nor impersonal. In WHERE SHALL I WANDER, he is just the opposite, registering the queer particulars of our post-modern world so deeply that each poem moves us in ways that defy explication. The amazing result--far from frustration--is a delight and elation unique in modern (and post-modern) poetry.

...Like all good things
life tends to go on too long, and when we smile
in mute annoyance, pauses for a moment.
Rains bathe the rainbow,
and the shape of night is an empty cylinder,
focused at us, urging its noncompliance
closer along the way we chose to go.

As far as I'm concerned, what is conveyed in Mr Ashbery's new book is wisdom enough for a lifetime--his own or anyone's.

An extremely pleasant surprise.
John Ashbery, Where Shall I Wander (Ecco, 2005)

John Ashbery, the Old Man of the Mountains of the L=A=N=G= (okay, that's enough, I'm not spelling out the whole silly thing) movement, has gradually, in his poetry, been sounding more and more like a normal human being over the past forty years. With Where Shall I Wander, Ashbery passes almost fully into the realm of normaldom; there are a few obvious twists that pop up from his irresponsible youth, but when you couch them in such poems as this, one can rationalize them as influences from the dadas, say, or the futurists, rather than the rather senseless stuff Ashbery and his contemporaries turned out for so long.

All this is to say, of course, that Where Shall I Wander is not only easily Ashbery's finest book to date, but it's the kind of book that you might be able to hand someone who "doesn't like poetry" and have them come away with it with that "wow, I actually understood that!" look:

"Newfoundland is, or was, full of interesting people.
Like Larry, who would make a fool of himself on street corners
for a nickel. There was the Russian who called himself
the Grand Duke, and who was said to be a real duke from somewhere,
and the woman who frequently accompanied him on his rounds.
Doc Hanks, the sawbones, was a real good surgeon
when he wasn't completely drunk, which was most of the time.
When only half drunk he could perform decent cranial surgery.
There was the blind man who never said anything
but produced spectral sounds on a musical saw. "
(--from "Interesting People of Newfoundland'")

There are times, as in the poem above, when Ashbery has an almost Hayden Carruth feel to some of his work, but the voice is incontrovertibly Ashbery's-- rambling and slightly talky like Carruth's, but with a crotchety feel that's all Ashbery, cod love him for it.

Even better, the author photo on the back can be used to scare pets and small children on the train. "Intense" does not begin to describe the look in Ashbery's eyes; either he wants to pull your spleen out with a dull tea spoon and eat it in front of you, or there's a really big chocolate sundae behind you, and Ashbery's going through withdrawal. Either way, it will either fascinate or scare you (and everyone around you).

Great stuff, on all counts. While I know Ashbery's reputation precedes him among casual readers of poetry ("difficult" and "Ashbery" were words that for years went hand-in-hand), give the man a chance and pick this up. You will no doubt find yourself more than pleasantly surprised. ****