Farm Implements And Rutabagas In A Landscape Poem by John Ashbery
Farm Implements And Rutabagas In A Landscape
The first of the undecoded messages read: "Popeye sits
in thunder,
Unthought of. From that shoebox of an apartment,
From livid curtain's hue, a tangram emerges: a country."
Meanwhile the Sea Hag was relaxing on a green couch: "How
pleasant
To spend one's vacation en la casa de Popeye," she
scratched
Her cleft chin's solitary hair. She remembered spinach
And was going to ask Wimpy if he had bought any spinach.
"M'love," he intercepted, "the plains are decked out
in thunder
Today, and it shall be as you wish." He scratched
The part of his head under his hat. The apartment
Seemed to grow smaller. "But what if no pleasant
Inspiration plunge us now to the stars? For this is my
country."
Suddenly they remembered how it was cheaper in the country.
Wimpy was thoughtfully cutting open a number 2 can of spinach
When the door opened and Swee'pea crept in. "How pleasant!"
But Swee'pea looked morose. A note was pinned to his bib.
"Thunder
And tears are unavailing," it read. "Henceforth shall
Popeye's apartment
Be but remembered space, toxic or salubrious, whole or
scratched."
Olive came hurtling through the window; its geraniums scratched
Her long thigh. "I have news!" she gasped. "Popeye, forced as
you know to flee the country
One musty gusty evening, by the schemes of his wizened,
duplicate father, jealous of the apartment
And all that it contains, myself and spinach
In particular, heaves bolts of loving thunder
At his own astonished becoming, rupturing the pleasant
Arpeggio of our years. No more shall pleasant
Rays of the sun refresh your sense of growing old, nor the
scratched
Tree-trunks and mossy foliage, only immaculate darkness and
thunder."
She grabbed Swee'pea. "I'm taking the brat to the country."
"But you can't do that--he hasn't even finished his spinach,"
Urged the Sea Hag, looking fearfully around at the apartment.
But Olive was already out of earshot. Now the apartment
Succumbed to a strange new hush. "Actually it's quite pleasant
Here," thought the Sea Hag. "If this is all we need fear from
spinach
Then I don't mind so much. Perhaps we could invite Alice the Goon
over"--she scratched
One dug pensively--"but Wimpy is such a country
Bumpkin, always burping like that." Minute at first, the thunder
Soon filled the apartment. It was domestic thunder,
The color of spinach. Popeye chuckled and scratched
His balls: it sure was pleasant to spend a day in the country.
I can see how this poem might fit into the surreal and Dada categories. It certainly take one to unusual places. Ashbery was also transgressive in his elite world when he wrote, 'Popeye chuckled and scratched his balls.' It is an odd little piece. One wonders what he was like as a youth...a wild rich boy...or an odd academic...or what?
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This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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4/27/2024 4:00:58 AM # 1.0.0.1119
Nobody knows what this stuff means, including Ashbery who won't be pinned down or offer and explanation of any kind. Those who are not fond of it will protest its shortcomings, but the most annoying are Ashbery's ardent fans who claim it is profound. And when you ask them why they think this, they then attack you. They cannot tell you why it is so great or what it means or what he is on about but it is profound.
Poetry is great when it achieves that extraordinary fluidity from the mastery and dominance of the language of technique and technique without being captured by the structuralist beggars.
Who gives a what it means? The question should be not what it means, but what does it mean to me? Does it move you? Does it provoke your imagination? Does it make you think? Of your friends, of your family, of your own life? People who question meaning in poetry are better off sticking to mathematics.