John Ashbery Speaks To His Readers About The Composition Of 'blue Sonata' And 'the Other Tradition' Poem by Dennis Ryan

Wednesday afternoon, January 16,2019; Sunday morning, February 14,2021; Thursday night, August 18,2022

'The things that were coming to be talked about
Have come and gone and are still remembered... '
- John Ashbery, from 'Blue Sonata'

'To utter the speech rehearsed for that occasion...'
- John Ashbery's final line in the first version of 'Sonatina', the original title of 'Blue Sonata'

How could those first English explorers,
Christopher Newport, the rest, have better
prepared to meet the challenge of a new world?
A stockade had to be built, of course, food
gathered, preserved, and stocked, the coastal
wilderness survived those first several winters.
The settlers understood their ultimate purpose,
yet their particular roles remained unclear, largely
undefined—life was uncertain— and they knew it.
Make history? They needed to feel their way along,
take baby steps. How viable was Jamestown anyway?
Those supply missions... Their dilemma reminds me
of the composition of 'Blue Sonata', a code for reading
the other poems in Houseboat Days. I began by writing
'long ago was the then beginning... the setting out
on a new but still undefined way.' Then I went on
to elaborate in a very general way—as is my wont—
questioning memory and imagination in wave after
wave, each breaking onto shore in the new world.
There was a history to tell, yet that history refused
to tell itself, 'the specifics' of course, for fear of—?
Silence to what end? In Jamestown, the settlers
were allowed to pass into and out of the stockade
on an indefinite basis. Then permission was rescinded
once starvation ensued. You rescued them all at last,
those who had survived, or so it seems to me
right now, remembering the history, writing
this minute to minute. In 'The Other Tradition',
the speaker is also recalling in a very general way
a past event: a meeting had been called, and more
chairs had to be brought in for attendees, more
lamps lit, it being evening. The poem, as is,
stands in for the event, real and imagined,
is a fete of memory though I name no names,
none of the particulars, put nothing 'on the record'.
The poem, then, stands in for my experience,
of which I am loathe to tell. I need conceal,
leave meaning, interpretations to the critics.
It ‘s 4: 15 p.m. now, and I need go prepare.
Preparations are underway, the play about to unfold.
Key players rehearse their lines, know their roles.