Farm Implements and Rutabagas in a Landscape

The first of the undecoded messages read: "Popeye sits in thunder, 

Unthought of. From that shoebox of an apartment, 

From livid curtain's hue, a tangram emerges: a country." 

Meanwhile the Sea Hag was relaxing on a green couch: "How pleasant 

To spend one's vacation en la casa de Popeye," she scratched 

Her cleft chin's solitary hair. She remembered spinach 

 And was going to ask Wimpy if he had bought any spinach. 

"M'love," he intercepted, "the plains are decked out in thunder 

Today, and it shall be as you wish." He scratched 

The part of his head under his hat. The apartment 

Seemed to grow smaller. "But what if no pleasant 

Inspiration plunge us now to the stars? For this is my country." 

Suddenly they remembered how it was cheaper in the country. 

Wimpy was thoughtfully cutting open a number 2 can of spinach 

When the door opened and Swee'pea crept in. "How pleasant!" 

But Swee'pea looked morose. A note was pinned to his bib. "Thunder 

And tears are unavailing," it read. "Henceforth shall Popeye's apartment 

Be but remembered space, toxic or salubrious, whole or scratched."

 

Olive came hurtling through the window; its geraniums scratched 

Her long thigh. "I have news!" she gasped. "Popeye, forced as you know to flee the country 

One musty gusty evening, by the schemes of his wizened, duplicate father, jealous of the apartment 

And all that it contains, myself and spinach 

In particular, heaves bolts of loving thunder 

At his own astonished becoming, rupturing the pleasant 

Arpeggio of our years. No more shall pleasant 

Rays of the sun refresh your sense of growing old, nor the scratched 

Tree-trunks and mossy foliage, only immaculate darkness and thunder." 

She grabbed Swee'pea. "I'm taking the brat to the country." 

"But you can't do that—he hasn't even finished his spinach," 

Urged the Sea Hag, looking fearfully around at the apartment. 

But Olive was already out of earshot. Now the apartment 

Succumbed to a strange new hush. "Actually it's quite pleasant 

Here," thought the Sea Hag. "If this is all we need fear from spinach 

Then I don't mind so much. Perhaps we could invite Alice the Goon over"—she scratched 

One dug pensively—"but Wimpy is such a country 

Bumpkin, always burping like that." Minute at first, the thunder 

 Soon filled the apartment. It was domestic thunder, 

The color of spinach. Popeye chuckled and scratched 

His balls: it sure was pleasant to spend a day in the country.

--John Ashbery (1927-2017), New York-born poet, poet laureate of New York State 2001-2003, critic, professor, and playwright