06 09 20

Some things we do take up a lot more time
And are considered a fruitful, natural thing to do.
I am coming out of one way to behave
Into a plowed cornfield. On my left, gulls,
On an inland vacation. They seem to mind the way I write.
Or, to take another example : last month
I vowed to write more. What is writing ?
Well, in my case, it’s getting down on paper
Not thoughts, exactly, but ideas, maybe :
Ideas about thoughts. Thoughts is too grand a word.
Ideas is better, though not precisely what I mean.
Someday I’ll explain. Not today though.
I feel as though someone had made me a vest
Which I was wearing out of doors into the countryside
Out of loyalty to the person, although
There is no one to see, except me
With my inner vision of what I look like.
The wearing is both a duty and a pleasure
Because it absorbs me, absorbs me too much.
One horse stands out irregularly against
The land over there. And am I receiving
The vision ? Is it mine, or do I already owe it
For other visions, unnoticed and unrecorded
On the great, relaxed curve of time,
All the forgotten springs, dropped pebbles,
Songs once heard that then passed out of light
Into everyday oblivion ? He moves away slowly,
Looks up and pumps the sky, a lingering
Question. Him too we can sacrifice
To the end of progress, for we must, we must be moving on.

« Ode to Bill »
ashbery écrivain idées pensée