Alone with our madness and favorite flower
We see that there really is nothing left to write about.
Or rather, it is necessary to write about the same old things
In the same way, repeating the same things over and over
For love to continue and be gradually different.
Beehives and ants have to be re-examined eternally
And the color of the day put in
Hundreds of times and varied from summer to winter
For it to get slowed down to the pace of an authentic
Saraband and huddle there, alive and resting.
Only then can the chronic inattention
Of our lives drape itself around us, conciliatory
And with one eye on those long tan plush shadows
That speak so deeply into our unprepared knowledge
Of ourselves, the talking engines of our day.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
In some Ashbery poems, it seems like we are reading mere babble, rambling, repetitive cogitations. Whether it makes for good poetry is for the reader to condone. As has been said, 'you' dear reader are the poem. That's a cop out. Some poetry is spectacular, most is mundane, repetitive, the topics are limited. Late Echo proves this point about babble mixed with regret.