text: const johnAshbery = {
    name: 'john-ashbery',
    genre: 'new-york-school',
    data: [
  `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.`,
  
  ///////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
  
  `You can’t say it that way any more.   
  Bothered about beauty you have to   
  Come out into the open, into a clearing,
  And rest. Certainly whatever funny happens to you
  Is OK. To demand more than this would be strange
  Of you, you who have so many lovers,   
  People who look up to you and are willing   
  To do things for you, but you think
  It’s not right, that if they really knew you . . .
  So much for self-analysis. Now,
  About what to put in your poem-painting:   
  Flowers are always nice, particularly delphinium.   
  Names of boys you once knew and their sleds,   
  Skyrockets are good—do they still exist?
  There are a lot of other things of the same quality   
  As those I’ve mentioned. Now one must
  Find a few important words, and a lot of low-keyed,
  Dull-sounding ones. She approached me
  About buying her desk. Suddenly the street was   
  Bananas and the clangor of Japanese instruments.   
  Humdrum testaments were scattered around. His head
  Locked into mine. We were a seesaw. Something   
  Ought to be written about how this affects   
  You when you write poetry:
  The extreme austerity of an almost empty mind
  Colliding with the lush, Rousseau-like foliage of its desire to communicate   
  Something between breaths, if only for the sake   
  Of others and their desire to understand you and desert you
  For other centers of communication, so that understanding
  May begin, and in doing so be undone.`,
  
  ////////////////////////////////////////////
  
  `the bruise will stop by later.
  For now, the pain pauses in its round,
  notes the time of day, the patient’s temperature,
  leaves a memo for the surrogate: What the hell
  did you think you were doing? I mean . . .
  Oh well, less said the better, they all say.
  I’ll post this at the desk.
  
  God will find the pattern and break it.`,
  
  ////////////////////////////////////////////
  
  `Impatient as we were for all of them to join us,
  The land had not yet risen into view: gulls had swept the gray steel towers away
  So that it profited less to go searching, away over the humming earth
  Than to stay in immediate relation to these other things—boxes, store parts, whatever you wanted to call them—
  Whose installedness was the price of further revolutions, so you knew this combat was the last.
  And still the relationship waxed, billowed like scenery on the breeze.
  
  They are the same aren’t they,
  The presumed landscape and the dream of home
  Because the people are all homesick today or desperately sleeping,   
  Trying to remember how those rectangular shapes
  Became so extraneous and so near
  To create a foreground of quiet knowledge
  In which youth had grown old, chanting and singing wise hymns that   
  Will sign for old age
  And so lift up the past to be persuaded, and be put down again.
  
  The warning is nothing more than an aspirate “h”;
  The problem is sketched completely, like fireworks mounted on poles:   
  Complexion of evening, the accurate voices of the others.
  During Coca-Cola lessons it becomes patent
  Of noise on the left, and we had so skipped a stage that   
  The great wave of the past, compounded in derision,   
  Submerged idea and non-dreamer alike   
  In falsetto starlight like “purity”
  Of design that had been the first danger sign
  To wash the sticky, icky stuff down the drain—pfui!
  
  How does it feel to be outside and inside at the same time,
  The delicious feeling of the air contradicting and secretly abetting
  The interior warmth? But the land curdles the dismay in which it’s written   
  Bearing to a final point of folly and doom
  The wisdom of these generations.
  Look at what you’ve done to the landscape—
  The ice cube, the olive—
  There is a perfect tri-city mesh of things
  Extending all the way along the river on both sides
  With the end left for thoughts on construction
  That are always turning to alps and thresholds
  Above the tide of others, feeding a European moss rose without glory.
  
  We shall very soon have the pleasure of recording
  A period of unanimous tergiversation in this respect
  And to make that pleasure the greater, it is worth while
  At the risk of tedious iteration, to put first upon record a final protest:   
  Rather decaying art, genius, inspiration to hold to
  An impossible “calque” of reality, than
  “The new school of the trivial, rising up on the field of battle,   
  Something of sludge and leaf-mold,” and life
  Goes trickling out through the holes, like water through a sieve,   
  All in one direction.
  
  You who were directionless, and thought it would solve everything if you found one,
  What do you make of this? Just because a thing is immortal
  Is that any reason to worship it? Death, after all, is immortal.   
  But you have gone into your houses and shut the doors, meaning   
  There can be no further discussion.
  And the river pursues its lonely course
  With the sky and the trees cast up from the landscape
  For green brings unhappiness—le vert Porte malheur.
  “The chartreuse mountain on the absinthe plain
  Makes the strong man’s tears tumble down like rain.”
  
  All this came to pass eons ago.
  Your program worked out perfectly. You even avoided
  The monotony of perfection by leaving in certain flaws:
  A backward way of becoming, a forced handshake,
  An absent-minded smile, though in fact nothing was left to chance.
  Each detail was startlingly clear, as though seen through a magnifying glass,   
  Or would have been to an ideal observer, namely yourself—
  For only you could watch yourself so patiently from afar
  The way God watches a sinner on the path to redemption,
  Sometimes disappearing into valleys, but always on the way,
  For it all builds up into something, meaningless or meaningful
  As architecture, because planned and then abandoned when completed,   
  To live afterwards, in sunlight and shadow, a certain amount of years.   
  Who cares about what was there before? There is no going back,   
  For standing still means death, and life is moving on,
  Moving on towards death. But sometimes standing still is also life.`,
  
  ///////////////////////////////////////////////
  
  `That night the wind stirred in the forsythia bushes,
  but it was a wrong one, blowing in the wrong direction.
  “That’s silly. How can there be a wrong direction?
  ‘It bloweth where it listeth,’ as you know, just as we do
  when we make love or do something else there are no rules for.”
  
  I tell you, something went wrong there a while back.
  Just don’t ask me what it was. Pretend I’ve dropped the subject.
  No, now you’ve got me interested, I want to know
  exactly what seems wrong to you, how something could
  
  seem wrong to you. In what way do things get to be wrong?
  I’m sitting here dialing my cellphone
  with one hand, digging at some obscure pebbles with my shovel
  with the other. And then something like braids will stand out,
  
  on horsehair cushions. That armchair is really too lugubrious.
  We’ve got to change all the furniture, fumigate the house,
  talk our relationship back to its beginnings. Say, you know
  that’s probably what’s wrong—the beginnings concept, I mean.
  I aver there are no beginnings, though there were perhaps some
  sometime. We’d stopped, to look at the poster the movie theater
  
  had placed freestanding on the sidewalk. The lobby cards
  drew us in. It was afternoon, we found ourselves
  sitting at the end of a row in the balcony; the theater was unexpectedly
  crowded. That was the day we first realized we didn’t fully
  know our names, yours or mine, and we left quietly
  amid the gray snow falling. Twilight had already set in.`,
  
  ///////////////////////////////////////////////
  
  `The man with the red hat
  And the polar bear, is he here too?   
  The window giving on shade,   
  Is that here too?
  And all the little helps,
  My initials in the sky,
  The hay of an arctic summer night?
  
  The bear
  Drops dead in sight of the window.
  Lovely tribes have just moved to the north.
  In the flickering evening the martins grow denser.   
  Rivers of wings surround us and vast tribulation.`,
  
  ///////////////////////////////////////////////////
  
  `Research has shown that ballads were produced by all of society
  working as a team. They didn’t just happen. There was no guesswork.
  The people, then, knew what they wanted and how to get it.
  We see the results in works as diverse as “Windsor Forest” and “The Wife of Usher’s Well.”   
  
  Working as a team, they didn’t just happen. There was no guesswork.
  The horns of elfland swing past, and in a few seconds
  we see the results in works as diverse as “Windsor Forest” and “The Wife of Usher’s Well,”
  or, on a more modern note, in the finale of the Sibelius violin concerto.
  
  The horns of elfland swing past, and in a few seconds
  the world, as we know it, sinks into dementia, proving narrative passé,
  or in the finale of the Sibelius violin concerto.
  Not to worry, many hands are making work light again.
  
  The world, as we know it, sinks into dementia, proving narrative passé.
  In any case the ruling was long overdue.
  Not to worry, many hands are making work light again,
  so we stay indoors. The quest was only another adventure.`,
  
  `In any case, the ruling was long overdue.
  The people are beside themselves with rapture
  so we stay indoors. The quest was only another adventure
  and the solution problematic, at any rate far off in the future.
  
  The people are beside themselves with rapture
  yet no one thinks to question the source of so much collective euphoria,
  and the solution: problematic, at any rate far off in the future.
  The saxophone wails, the martini glass is drained.
  
  Yet no one thinks to question the source of so much collective euphoria.
  In troubled times one looked to the shaman or priest for comfort and counsel.
  The saxophone wails, the martini glass is drained,
  and night like black swansdown settles on the city.
  
  In troubled times one looked to the shaman or priest for comfort and counsel.
  Now, only the willing are fated to receive death as a reward,
  and night like black swansdown settles on the city.
  If we tried to leave, would being naked help us?`,
  
  `Now, only the willing are fated to receive death as a reward.
  Children twist hula-hoops, imagining a door to the outside.
  If we tried to leave, would being naked help us?
  And what of older, lighter concerns? What of the river?
  
  Children twist hula-hoops, imagining a door to the outside,
  when all we think of is how much we can carry with us.
  And what of older, lighter concerns? What of the river?
  All the behemoths have filed through the maze of time.
  
  When all we think of is how much we can carry with us
  small wonder that those at home sit, nervous, by the unlit grate.
  All the behemoths have filed through the maze of time.
  It remains for us to come to terms with our commonality.
  
  Small wonder that those at home sit nervous by the unlit grate.
  It was their choice, after all, that spurred us to feats of the imagination.
  It remains for us to come to terms with our commonality
  and in so doing deprive time of further hostages.`,
  
  `It was their choice, after all, that spurred us to feats of the imagination.
  Now, silently as one mounts a stair we emerge into the open
  and in so doing deprive time of further hostages,
  to end the standoff that history long ago began.
  
  Now, silently as one mounts a stair we emerge into the open
  but it is shrouded, veiled: We must have made some ghastly error.
  To end the standoff that history long ago began
  must we thrust ever onward, into perversity?
  
  But it is shrouded, veiled: We must have made some ghastly error.
  You mop your forehead with a rose, recommending its thorns.
  Must we thrust ever onward, into perversity?
  Only night knows for sure; the secret is safe with her.
  
  You mop your forehead with a rose, recommending its thorns.
  Research has shown that ballads were produced by all of society;
  only night knows for sure. The secret is safe with her:
  The people, then, knew what they wanted and how to get it.`,
  
  //////////////////////////////////////////////
  
  `Oh there once was a woman
  and she kept a shop
  selling trinkets to tourists
  not far from a dock
  who came to see what life could be
  far back on the island.
  
  And it was always a party there
  always different but very nice
  New friends to give you advice
  or fall in love with you which is nice
  and each grew so perfectly from the other
  it was a marvel of poetry
  and irony
  
  And in this unsafe quarter
  much was scary and dirty
  but no one seemed to mind
  very much
  the parties went on from house to house
  There were friends and lovers galore
  all around the store
  There was moonshine in winter
  and starshine in summer
  and everybody was happy to have discovered
  what they discovered
  
  And then one day the ship sailed away
  There were no more dreamers just sleepers
  in heavy attitudes on the dock
  moving as if they knew how
  among the trinkets and the souvenirs
  the random shops of modern furniture
  and a gale came and said
  it is time to take all of you away
  from the tops of the trees to the little houses
  on little paths so startled
  
  And when it became time to go
  they none of them would leave without the other
  for they said we are all one here
  and if one of us goes the other will not go
  and the wind whispered it to the stars
  the people all got up to go
  and looked back on love`
  ]}
  
  module.exports = johnAshbery