If You Said You Would Come With Me - John Ashbery
In town it was very urban but in the country cows were covering the hills.
The clouds were near and very moist. I was walking along the pavement
with Anna, enjoying the scattered scenery. Suddenly a sound like a deep
bell came from behind us. We both turned to look. "It's the words you spoke
in the past, coming back to haunt you," Anna explained. "They always do,
you know."
Indeed I did. Many times this deep bell-like tone had intruded itself on
my thoughts, scrambling them at first, the rearranging them in apple-pie
order. "Two crows," the voice seemed to say, "were sitting on a sundial in
the God-given sunlight. Then one flew away."
"Yes . . . and then?" I wanted to ask, but I kept silent. We turned into a
courtyard and walked up serval flights of stairs to the roof, where a party
was in progress. "This is my friend Hans," Anna said by way of introduc-
tion. No one paid much attention and several guests moved away to the
balustrade to admire the view of orchards and vineyards, approaching their
autumn glory. One of the women however came to greet us in a friendly
manner. I was wondering if this was a "harvest home," a phrase I had often
heard but never understood.
"Welcome to my home . . . well, to our home," the woman said gaily. "As
you can see, the grapes are being harvested." It seemed she could read my
mind. "They say this year's vintage will be a mediocre one, but the sight is
lovely, nonetheless. Don't you agree, Mr. . . ."
"Hans," I replied curtly. The prospect was indeed a lovely one, but I
wanted to leave. Making some excuse I guided Anna by the elbow toward
the stairs and we left.
"That wasn't very polite of you," she said dryly.
"Honey, I've had enough of people who can read your mind. When I
want it done I'll go to a mind reader."
"I happen to be one and I can tell you what you're thinking is false. Lis-
ten to what the big bell says: 'We are all strangers on our own turf, in our
own time.' You should have paid attention. Now adjustments will have to be
made."
[From:
Ashbery, J. (2000) Your Name Here. Manchester: Carcanet. p4.]
The clouds were near and very moist. I was walking along the pavement
with Anna, enjoying the scattered scenery. Suddenly a sound like a deep
bell came from behind us. We both turned to look. "It's the words you spoke
in the past, coming back to haunt you," Anna explained. "They always do,
you know."
Indeed I did. Many times this deep bell-like tone had intruded itself on
my thoughts, scrambling them at first, the rearranging them in apple-pie
order. "Two crows," the voice seemed to say, "were sitting on a sundial in
the God-given sunlight. Then one flew away."
"Yes . . . and then?" I wanted to ask, but I kept silent. We turned into a
courtyard and walked up serval flights of stairs to the roof, where a party
was in progress. "This is my friend Hans," Anna said by way of introduc-
tion. No one paid much attention and several guests moved away to the
balustrade to admire the view of orchards and vineyards, approaching their
autumn glory. One of the women however came to greet us in a friendly
manner. I was wondering if this was a "harvest home," a phrase I had often
heard but never understood.
"Welcome to my home . . . well, to our home," the woman said gaily. "As
you can see, the grapes are being harvested." It seemed she could read my
mind. "They say this year's vintage will be a mediocre one, but the sight is
lovely, nonetheless. Don't you agree, Mr. . . ."
"Hans," I replied curtly. The prospect was indeed a lovely one, but I
wanted to leave. Making some excuse I guided Anna by the elbow toward
the stairs and we left.
"That wasn't very polite of you," she said dryly.
"Honey, I've had enough of people who can read your mind. When I
want it done I'll go to a mind reader."
"I happen to be one and I can tell you what you're thinking is false. Lis-
ten to what the big bell says: 'We are all strangers on our own turf, in our
own time.' You should have paid attention. Now adjustments will have to be
made."
[From:
Ashbery, J. (2000) Your Name Here. Manchester: Carcanet. p4.]
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