O your perfect, vulgate, hairy sestina It’s interesting how no one has yet written a sestina about John Ashbery, answered the door. What are you doing here, she said. Maybe I should be asking you that You’ll never guess what, Jimmy, said Frank. What, Mr. Frank O’Hara? who was still standing there in the doorway holding her painting like some acoustic (signed) W.H. Auden. The sun came out again and gently burned the world. still in his twenties (or so he claimed), came bounding up the stairs, crying out the names Kenneth Koch’s eyes got big as pool balls. A sestina? A sestina by the poet of \u201cThe Far from the Rappahannock, the silent Danube moves along toward the sea. Far from the Pirin, the pointy Appenines plummet toward the sea. ABOUT THE AUTHOR<\/strong> It’s interesting how no one has yet written a sestina about John Ashbery, By Kent Johnson.<\/strong><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":155,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"ngg_post_thumbnail":0,"footnotes":""},"categories":[7],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-49961","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-poetry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/49961","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/155"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=49961"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/49961\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=49961"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=49961"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=49961"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
\n –David Shapiro (correspondence with the author)<\/em><\/p>\n
\nJoseph Ceravolo, Barbara Guest, James Schuyler, Frank O’Hara, and Kenneth Koch.
\nAfter all, the New York poets wrote a bunch of sestinas, and Frank O’Hara,
\nof course, though he never wrote one himself, dropped the names of poets in his poems
\n like crazy. James Schuyler
\ndid too. He lived at the Chelsea amongst wackos of all kinds. Once, on the morning of
\n this poem, when seven thousand saffron panels billowed in the park, on a day you could take up the tattered shadows off the grass, Barbara Guest
\nknocked on his door with a flat shape under her arm. Joseph Ceravolo<\/p>\n
\n question, said Joseph Ceravolo.
\nWell, I’ve got this painting, it’s by Joe Brainard, I wanted to show it to Jimmy, and it’s
\n called \u201cTangerines.” John Ashbery
\ngave it to me after Frank O’Hara died, said Barbara Guest.
\nWhat do you mean Frank died, cried Joseph, I just saw Kenneth Koch
\ndown at the San Remo, and he didn’t say anything about that! Ha ha hee hee, laughed
\n James Schuyler,
\narranging some jonquils in the kitchenette, you two are a stitch and a half! And they all
\n laughed and laughed, like a happy rain, because the world was new, and irony was so straightforward then, in the Kennedy era. And just then the phone rang.
\n (It was Frank O’Hara!)<\/p>\n
\nsaid Jimmy, with a mock ceremoniousness. Well, don’t tell Joe Ceravolo
\nbecause I want to tell him myself, and don’t tell Kenneth, either, because you know how
\n he takes these things, but they are here from Holland to make a movie about me. Can you believe it? Oh my God, Frank, squealed James Schuyler,
\nI can’t believe it, that is so fantastic, and even though I am a bit envious, I
\n am happy, too, but please can’t I tell John Ashbery,
\nhe’ll be thrilled, he loves everything Dutch, in fact he just won some prize, and he might
\n go there, and I’ll tell him not to say a word to Kenneth Koch\u2026
\nJoseph and Barbara exchanged quizzical looks. Jimmy, what the hell are you talking
\n about, demanded Barbara Guest,<\/p>\n
\n panel waiting for sound. Oh, Barbara, do be a good Guest
\nand come on in, said Jimmy, in his famous punning way, It’s Frank O’Hara,
\nand they’re making a movie about him, and it’s all in Dutch, O poor Kenneth Koch,
\nhe’ll go mad like King George the Third, he’s always wanted to be translated into Dutch!
\n Actually, interjected Joseph Ceravolo,
\nhe’s just been translated into Swedish, by a countess from Minneapolis. A man shouldn’t
\n complain\u2026 The sun went behind a small cloud. Barbara was absentmindedly running her fingers across the inscription W.H. Auden had written for Jimmy in a first edition of Some Trees, by John Ashbery,
\nit said: To my friend in Foetry and all other things, Mr. James Schuyler.<\/p>\n
\n James Schuyler,
\nshe said coyly, in a Katherine Hepburn kind of way, do you think he said Foetry on
\n purpose, or is that just his handwriting? Barbara Guest,
\nsaid Jimmy, clearing his throat and replying in formal kind, I’ve tried to figure that one
\n out myself, it seems almost like a pun, doesn’t it, and when I asked John Ashbery
\nhimself, he got all distant and mysterious as a girl in a Vermeer, so I just don’t know. By
\n this time, Frank O’Hara
\nwas beginning to wonder what had happened to Jimmy, who had become so distracted by
\n the conversation with Barbara he had simply forgotten about Frank, and because he was on his lunch hour and had to meet Leroi Jones at the Automat, Frank decided to hang up. Joseph Ceravolo
\nsaid, Um, Jimmy, you kind of left Frank hanging, didn’t you? Just then, Kenneth Koch,<\/p>\n
\n of northern European cities, the energy in and around him so electric, it looked like he could take it off and put it back on, like clothes. It’s Kenneth Koch!
\nsaid Joseph. Hi Kenneth! said Barbara, it’s so nice to see you! Hello? Hello? Frank?
\n Frank? said James Schuyler.
\nFrom my window I dropped a nickel by mistake<\/strong>, said Kenneth, looking fixedly at the
\n floor and nearly shouting, so I raced down and found there on the street, instead, a good friend, who says to me, in Dutch, Kenneth, do you have a minute? And I say, Yes! I am in my twenties! I have plenty of time! And so he tells me he’s been translating my poetry, and it’s going to be published! In Holland! <\/strong>Jimmy quickly hung up the receiver and a look of absolute panic came down over his face. Joseph Ceravolo
\n(for this was a gift he had as a person and as a poet) radically changed the subject with
\n the swift and elegant authority of a guillotine: Well, Kenneth, that is so fantastic, and even though we are a bit envious, we are happy, too. But look at this wonderful painting Barbara Guest
\nhas brought to show us\u2026 Kenneth looked up. You have TANGERINES in it<\/strong>, said
\n Kenneth. And hey, by the way<\/strong>, he literally yelled, as he started to do jumping jacks at a great velocity, What’s up with Frank O’Hara?
\nWait until he hears about Holland! Last time I saw him he said he felt like he’d
\n never write again! I’m writing a lot, though! So where’s he been? Huh?<\/strong> Uh,
\n said Jimmy, he’s, uh, been editing a new, um, sestina\u2026 full of, you know, cartoon characters\u2026 by John Ashbery\u2026<\/p>\n
\n Tennis Court Oath,” John Ashbery?<\/strong>
\nYes, said James Schuyler, nervously lighting a Gaulois, uh, W.H. Auden suggested he try
\n one\u2026 I think\u2026 Just then, the phone rang again. Joseph Ceravolo, who was nearest the death-black machine, answered. Hi Joseph, the pleasant voice said. Was that Kenneth I heard shouting right before I hung up? (It was Frank O’Hara!)
\nAh, hi, uh, no, no, there is no, ah, Olivia Oyl who lives here. Sorry. Goodbye. Click.
\n The backs of all the chairs were turned towards the sun, and then Kenneth, past his seventieth jumping jack, started to get this feeling of exaltation. And! But!
\n he yelled. He yelled so loud, it was as if the conjunctions could couple, like in the form of a centaur, the living to the dead. Now wait a second, they asked for Olivia Oyl? I mean, you’ve got to be fucking kidding me, said Barbara Guest.
\n\u201d\u0192
\nInto the Heat-Forged Air<\/strong><\/p>\n
\n–John Ashbery
\n<\/em><\/p>\n
\nThe grey and mauve Virungas undulate pleasantly, much like
\nThe Darlings in their slumber. Chuckling nomads make lean-tos
\nWithin the Schwatka. Troop carriers rust their wheels
\nOn the Taurus, and jackals roam
\nThe Toba Kakar. The Sentinel Range is white with
\nDust, as are the peaks of the Ahaggar, covered in
\nDust. The Tibetsi are grey and dry as bone.
\nThe Sierra Madre is neither sentient nor unsentient.
\nWhilst the Titiwangsa appear to walk in the sky, the Verkhoyansk
\nSplash about in the sea. The Mackenzies are phlegmatic,
\nAlmost diffident beneath their weathers.
\nEons have crosshatched the Silvretta Alps,
\nPure porphyry. Ophitic basalt predominates
\nIn the Aberdare; its radiating crystals of feldspar recall
\nDandelions in seed. Not so the Hafner Group, whose pure
\nSlate is uniform and dark. Slowly, the Koryak
\nCrash into the Kurai. The grave and dry Drakensbergs
\nCouldn’t give a darn what anyone thinks, but
\nThe Glarus crackle companionably in the sun. Bombers draw
\nVapor circles over the Lesser Khingan. People die of thirst,
\nFleeing over the unforgiving Rockies.
\nThe Pegunungan have never been climbed,
\nSheer and crumbly their needle peaks.
\nThe Bergamo Alps are sheathed in mist. The Massif Central
\nIs imposing from afar, but palm-fringed are its valleys.
\nThe Kunlun are huge. The Glockner Group tilts
\nForward and laughs, like a girl at an angle, held up
\nBy a gale, while the Rieserferner Group is one of
\nThe shortest ranges of the world,
\nLikewise the tiny Angokel.
\nStill, the Sistema Penibetico goes on forever.
\nThe Rhaetian Alps eat climbers like candy,
\nYet the Cherangany are mild. In the Brooks Range, ferns
\nAnd cairns become abundant; giant sloths are joyous on the
\nPlessur. The Ratikon is all hollow, a carapace of slate.
\nThe Wetterstein has a ruined tavern half-way up. If there is a
\nGeological example of neurosis it is the Brenta Group. Not so
\nIts neighbor, the Karawanken, serene and languorous in its smooth
\nRock skin. Strangely, the Dolomites are made of limestone,
\nAs are the Ortlers. Migrants trek down the Cottians, carrying
\nTorches. The Mont Blanc Group is famous; the Cairngorms are
\nCovered in primeval pine. The Caucasus are stern and dark.
\nThe Carpathians span five countries, all once members of the
\nWarsaw Pact, but the Juna are smothered in crows and the roaring of
\nCaws. The Pyrenees are sullen, aloof, though this
\nIs all part of their insouciant charm. Even as the Altay turn to mud,
\nNight envelops the Nulatos. Chinamen jump with a thump
\nOn the Jotunheimen, while the Sierra Morena blushes
\nIn the evening, powdering its breasts with cloud. The Svecoffenides
\nAre lugubrious, a lure for poets. The Table Mountains are flat,
\nAwash in runic trash. No one can believe the Golden Mountains.
\nBut the Stone Mountains are airy, made of chalk, tunneled and
\nHollowed out like Swiss cheese. The Bystrzyckie Mountains are
\nUnknown, devoid of life, while the Urals are vast and crisscrossed
\nBy capillaries of gold. The Vosges, avant-garde of ranges, has not
\nMuch changed since the invention of photography. The Appalachians
\nAre growing smaller by the day. The Wicklow Mountains were once
\nA redoubt of the IRA; now they are mottled with ocotillo and
\nMesquite. The Endless Mountains end abruptly on the outskirts
\nOf Harrisburg. Meth labs crumble like sandcastles in the Green
\nMountains. Adult stores are buried under strata in the Smoky
\nMountains. The White Mountains are full of wind. The East
\nCatches the light; the Rubies have knife-like ridges.
\nThe Shoshone Range loves to whisper its name on the wind, and
\nTrue to its name, the Snake Range is full of them. The Toiyabe Range
\nBakes its rocks under the superheated sun. The Endicott Mountains
\nRelease their small snows, teasing the streams. More children are lost
\nIn the Black Hills than any other range; at least half are found years
\nLater, in the shadows of the Punamints, mendicants with no
\nMemory of their pasts. The Anti-Lebanon is covered with checkpoints,
\nBut not so the Otztals. The Tian Shan are so trodden, whole areas
\nAre like sponge; still, the Tatras are slick and hard. Deer bed down
\nIn the Elburz with the lion. From above, the Hindu Kush look like
\nSutures, raised and purple, along a thigh. Snowcranes turn to ice
\nOn the Hida, blown upward by massive drafts; they fall like toys,
\nOn the hot stones. Sunnis squat in caves in the Safed Koh; in every cave
\nA little cage, and in every cage a sparrow from the Alleghenies. Prayer
\nWheels make clacking sounds in the Western Ghats. Strange concussions
\nAre heard deep inside the Zangezurs, though no one knows why.
\nThe Vindhya Range is mute, intractable, along the spine of India:
\nHow does consciousness arise? The Cordillera Darwin swarms
\nWith thistles and ferns. Black helicopters fly over the Cordillera Negra,
\nNever to be seen again. The Cordillera de Lipez is hollow, its rock
\nThin as eggshell. The Cordillera de Sarmiento is a block of stone.
\nThe Sierra Ventana is covered in dust; it blinds those who would seek
\nMeaning in form. The Cordillera Pelada is covered in blue dust.
\nThe Parcell Mountains are taut as a bass string, even when covered in dust.
\nUFO’s hover over the Sandias. The Sierra Nevada is sprinkled with corpses,
\nTurned to quartz, while the Torngats have Sasquatch, otherwise known
\nAs Bigfoot. The Superstitions are dotted with radio dishes, but tiny elk
\nRut in the Kigluaiks. The Eje Transversal has nothing to say. The Anvil
\nRange smells like wild cabbage or fennel, and the Glenyon Range does
\nToo, though more subtly. The Bitterroot puckers its lips
\nIn the rain, and the Cabinets hold many wonders. The Gallatin Range
\nIs lousy with moles; the Garnet, its sister, is 90% iron. The mountains
\nAre indifferent to our yearnings, our joys, and our sorrows.
\nThe John Long Mountains look like a boy praying toward Mecca;
\nBats prowl their starry skies. The Castle Mountains have
\nBeen reduced to conglomerate clods of granite and chert,
\nA hilarious hulk of hubris. The Klamaths are retiring
\nAnd diffident, but no less noble for that. Great howling
\nArmies clash in the Ouachitas, but the Nadaleen Range
\nIs encased in dust. The Ozarks are conflicted between
\nTradition and modernity, though the Chilkat Range
\nIs a lizard’s dream. People climb the ten thousand paths
\nOf the Himalaya, seeking who knows what. On the Schober Group,
\nLava flows upward and downward. The Niedere Tauern
\nJust sits there; no one knows its true nature. Amazingly,
\nThe Lepontine Alps run upward and downward and in all directions.
\nAfter entering the Sumava, it is said not a single person meets another,
\nFor there is only the activity of the Sumava.
\nHands are pressed to cave walls deep inside the Anti-Atlas.
\nThe Granatspitz are puny next to the Thurnwalds.
\nThe Montes Rook, towering and hermetic,
\nForm the smiling mouth of the frozen Moon.<\/p>\n![\"\"](\"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/\/wp-content\/uploads\/2012\/08\/kentjohnson.jpg\" "\\"kentjohnson\\"")
<\/p>\n
\nKent Johnson<\/strong> is author, translator, or editor of more than 20 books in some relation to poetry, including his most recent, A Question Mark above the Sun: Documents on the Mystery Surrounding a Famous Poem “By” Frank O’Hara<\/em>, Starcherone\/Dzanc Books (2nd Ed.) He lives in Freeport, Illinois.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"![\"\"](\"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/\/wp-content\/uploads\/2012\/08\/frankohara.jpg\" "\\"frankohara\\"")
<\/p>\n
\nJoseph Ceravolo, Barbara Guest, James Schuyler, Frank O’Hara, and Kenneth Koch.
\nAfter all, the New York poets wrote a bunch of sestinas, and Frank O’Hara,
\nof course, though he never wrote one himself, dropped the names of poets in his poems
\n like crazy.<\/p>\n