A Wave by John Ashbery

fall.
    But behind what looks like heaps of slag the peril
    Consists in explaining everything too evenly. Those
    Suffering from the blahs are unlikely to notice that the topic
    Of today’s lecture doesn’t exist yet, and in their trauma
    Will become one with the vast praying audience as it sways and bends
    To the rhythm of an almost inaudible piccolo. And when
    It is flushed out, the object of all this meditation will not
    Infrequently turn out to be a mere footnote to the great chain
    That manages only with difficulty to connect earth and sky together.
    Are comments like ours really needed? Of course, heaven is nice
    About it, not saying anything, but we, when we come away
    As children leaving school at four in the afternoon, can we
    Hold our heads up and face the night’s homework? No, the
    Divine tolerance we seem to feel is actually in short supply,
    And those moving forward toward us from the other end of the bridge
    Are defending, not welcoming us to, the place of power,
    A hill ringed with low, ridgelike fortifications. But when
    Somebody better prepared crosses over, he or she will get the same
    Cold reception. And so because it is impossible to believe
    That anyone lives there, it is we who shall be homeless, outdoors
    At the end. And we won’t quite know what to do about it.
    It’s mind-boggling, actually. Each of us must try to concentrate
    On some detail or other of their armor: somber, blood-red plumes
    Floating over curved blue steel; the ribbed velvet stomacher
    And its more social implications. Hurry to deal with the sting
    Of added meaning, hurry to fend it off. Your lessons
    Will become the ground of which we are made
    And shall look back on, for awhile. Life was pleasant there.
    And though we made it all up, it could still happen to us again.
    Only then, watch out. The burden of proof of the implausible
    Picaresque tale, boxes within boxes, will be yours
    Next time round. And nobody is going to like your ending.
    We had, though, a feeling of security
    But we weren’t aware of it then: that’s
    How secure we were. Now, in the dungeon of Better Living,
    It seems we may be called back and interrogated about it
    Which would be unfortunate, since only the absence of memory
    Animates us as we walk briskly back and forth
    At one with the soulless, restless crowd on the somber avenue.
    Is there something new to see, to speculate on? Dunno, better
    Stand back until something comes along to explain it,
    This curious lack of anxiety that begins to gnaw
    At one. Did it come because happiness hardened everything
    In its fire, and so the forms cannot die, like a ruined
    Fort too strong to be pulled down? And something like pale
    Alpine flowers still flourishes there:
    Some reminder that can never be anything more than that,
    Yet its balm cares about something, we cannot be really naked
    Having this explanation. So a reflected image of oneself
    Manages to stay alive through the darkest times, a period
    Of unprecedented frost, during which we get up each morning
    And go about our business as usual.
    And though there are some who leave regularly
    For the patchwork landscape of childhood, north of here,
    Our own kind of stiff standing around, waiting helplessly
    And mechanically for instructions that never come, suits the space
    Of our intense, uncommunicated speculation, marries
    The still life of crushed, red fruit in the sky and tames it
    For observation purposes. One is almost content
    To be with people then, to read their names and summon
    Greetings and speculation, or even nonsense syllables and
    Diagrams from those who appear so brilliantly at ease
    In the atmosphere we made by getting rid of most amenities
    In the interests of a bare, strictly patterned life that apparently
    Has charms we weren’t even conscious of, which is
    All to the good, except that it fumbles the premise
    We put by, saving it for a later phase of intelligence, and now
    We are living on it, ready to grow and make mistakes again,
    Still