We exist in a waiting room of Asia, within aged baroque or art nouveau edifices lacking modern elevators, each of us embodying Janus, the two-faced god, or a crossroads deity, amidst grand or faded residences of ambassadors. Every morning, a choice confronts us: which direction to turn our gaze.
This poignant observation from John Ash (1948-2019), extracted from “Double Vision,” in The Parthian Stations, resonates deeply with anyone who has navigated the complexities of expatriate life in Istanbul. As English-speaking individuals living in this vibrant city, John Ash’s poetry articulated our shared experiences with remarkable eloquence.
In the spring of 2007, I found myself climbing the worn marble steps of a narrow, late 19th-century baroque building to visit John Ash. The building’s green facade, darkened by soot, hinted at the city’s layered history. Inside his apartment, a space he owned, the atmosphere shifted to one of comfort and refined taste. Anatolian rugs adorned the floors, paintings by American artists graced the walls, and handcrafted objects, including a damascened table he had acquired affordably, added character. “It’s amazing how inexpensively you can get stuff like this that’s not very old but has been beautifully worked by hand,” John Ash remarked, a sentiment reflecting his appreciation for the city’s hidden treasures. This very table later found its way into his poem “Smoking,” a piece imbued with elegant melancholy. My visit, however, was for professional reasons – an interview for Rain Taxi magazine.
Our paths had first crossed seven years prior at an Istanbul gathering, and subsequently, we met regularly through a writers’ group. I recall John Ash’s distinctive high, nasal voice, sometimes sharp when animated, and his unapologetic use of eyeliner, details that painted a vivid picture of the poet.
Poet John Ash in a thoughtful pose, reflecting his complex and insightful writing style.
My interest in interviewing John Ash stemmed from a genuine admiration for his work. His poetry resonated profoundly, particularly for someone navigating the expatriate experience in Istanbul. Each day in Istanbul presented a similar choice as he articulated: to face history or modernity, the Byzantine or Ottoman legacy, the Western origins or the Eastern allure.
John Ash passed away on December 3rd of the previous year. His death occurred not in Istanbul, his beloved adopted home, but in Manchester, England, his birthplace – a city synonymous with the Industrial Revolution. Friends shared that his health had deteriorated, attributed largely to excessive drinking. One friend insisted that John Ash would never have willingly left Turkey had he been in better control of his life.
Manchester was the city John Ash departed from in 1985, embarking on a transformative journey to New York. There, he forged a lasting bond with fellow poet John Ashbery, a connection that often led to their names being confused. This move proved pivotal in his artistic development.
“For me,” John Ash explained in our 2007 conversation, “discovering poets like John Ashbery, Kenneth Koch, and Frank O’Hara was liberating. It opened up the realization that you could write about anything.” He felt released from the constraints of “constipated awful English poets who wrote in iambic pentameter. Quatrains. Can you believe it?” He found liberation in the New York School poets, feeling free from the mold of poets like Phillip Larkin, whom he admired but felt temperamentally distant from. This newfound freedom allowed him to embrace silliness and seriousness, expanding the scope of his poetic expression.
His poem, “Malediction I (Phil’s Dick),” about a man with a distinctive birthmark, encapsulates this sentiment, expressing a stark and unfiltered wish.
In 1996, facing landlord issues and the escalating rents of Manhattan, John Ash journeyed to Istanbul, once known as Constantinople. He was captivated and decided to stay. By this time, he had authored 12 poetry collections and his work had been recognized in prestigious anthologies, including Best American Poetry in 1988, 1990, 1991, and 1992, the 1988 edition being edited by John Ashbery himself. Poetry magazine even suggested that “John Ash could be the best English poet of his generation,” a statement he met with characteristic wryness, questioning, “Why ‘could’?” His travelogue, A Byzantine Journey, published in 1995, remained a fixture in Istanbul bookshop windows for years.
John Ash’s connection to Turkey extended back to the 1960s, giving him familiarity with the republic that emerged from the Ottoman Empire. Averse to boredom, he found Istanbul to be the only city after New York that held his interest. He described it as “a vital extraordinary and ancient city with these vast monuments, but it is not a museum. It’s not a still-life like Venice or even Paris for that matter… Istanbul is constantly developing and changing. It is completely unpredictable.”
Istanbul’s dynamic nature fostered a unique element in John Ash’s poetry: “sort of odd juxtapositions,” or what he termed, echoing John Ashbery, “bizarre contiguity.” He elaborated, “The historical fabric of the city is full of strange juxtapositions — Byzantine churches next to mosques, Byzantine churches converted into mosques, Baroque buildings and Ottoman wooden houses, humble teahouses and glitzy cafés and bars — all of these things within a short walk.”
“Evening II” exemplifies this “bizarre contiguity.” The poem juxtaposes the decline of the Mayan civilization with children playing on a contemporary Istanbul street, ending with “a pleasant evening in March.” This clash of epochs and imagery resonates, leaving a lingering impression on the reader.
Revisiting John Ash’s works after his death, I was surprised to find an even deeper appreciation for his poetry. This wasn’t rooted in nostalgia, as our friendship was not deeply intimate, but perhaps in an evolving perspective that comes with age, a shift in literary taste. It struck me that his primary focus was the poem itself, rather than the line, unlike poets like Albert Goldbarth. This makes excerpting his work challenging; the full impact is realized when a poem is experienced in its entirety. Nevertheless, his poetry is punctuated by memorable lines: “Olympus dazzles us, and the sea/flashes like a polished shield”; “scatter me in the light/on the crowns of the olives”; “it will all pass/like a train of ghosts as the empire declines”; “Everything was reversed, confused/like a revolving rainstorm …”
His style is characterized by its spareness, yet it avoids being skeletal. John Ash eliminated superfluity, entrusting the reader with active participation. The voices in his poems are often witty, playful, and at times, sagely, like detached dispensers of wisdom.
John Ash the person, distinct from the poet or his poetic voices, was multifaceted, more akin to a lunar deity than a straightforward Janus. His personality spanned a wide spectrum: irascible, understanding, condescending, generous, abrasive, compassionate, belittling, gentle, combative – and this list is likely incomplete. I recall an instance after a writers’ group meeting where a casual remark I made about Seljuk architecture drew his sharp rebuke, delivered in a voice that attracted the attention of nearby Turks. Though in his defense, I had indeed been incorrect.
How then did you sink into this fog, this limbo in which nothing is distinct as you always were like unrestrained laughter?
—“Aunt Milka I,” The Parthian Stations
Rakı, the national drink of Turkey, is often mispronounced. Served with water and sometimes ice, this aniseed liqueur turns a cloudy white upon dilution.
In 2003, during my separation from my first Turkish wife, I shared a bottle of rakı with John Ash. We talked and drank as he smoked, until only a small amount remained. I, disliking the licorice taste, had barely finished a glass. As I prepared to leave, John Ash poured the rest for himself. He must have been quite drunk, though his flushed face was the only outward sign. It was only later that the extent of his drinking problem became apparent to me.
Exquisite Iznik ceramic tiles, showcasing the vibrant colors and craftsmanship that inspired poet John Ash during his time in Turkey.
In August 2008, John Ash and I traveled to Iznik, a town southeast of Istanbul, known in ancient times as Nicaea, the site of the Nicene Creed’s establishment. Iznik, with its Byzantine ruins and ceramic tile heritage, offered a glimpse into Turkey’s layered past.
During the bus journey, John Ash pointed out the window with a mischievous glint in his eye, “This is the valley where the People’s Crusade was massacred.” His reference was to the violent and tragic episode of the People’s Crusade, a historical detail familiar to those within John’s circle.
While Iznik offered daytime attractions, nightlife was minimal. Evenings were often spent outdoors, watching the sunset over the lake, discussing poetry and various subjects. John Ash favored double rakıs, while I opted for mineral water or beer.
John Ash’s body of work can be broadly divided into English, American, and Turkish periods. His final, Turkish period, particularly his time in Istanbul and Turkey, became his favored setting. His later poetry is rich with references to ancient cities, ruins, historical allusions, exemplified by The Parthian Stations.
Shortly after our Iznik trip, I relocated to New Jersey. Subsequent visits to Istanbul included brief meetings with John Ash. He appeared increasingly frail, his hands trembling. He seemed to have mellowed, becoming more affectionate yet also more detached, as if constantly looking back at another time.
The only solution—assuming one is needed— is to plunge into the water or the ruins, to touch, in either case, the bruised bloom of another world. Nothing will be as you expected it to be, yet it is home of a kind, with complex signatures you recognize.
—from “A Short Divan,” To the City
Following John Ash’s passing, a mutual friend shared a photo of him walking towards an ancient wall. I, too, have a similar image of John Ash from behind, taken in an Iznik cemetery. He wore a grass-green Lacoste shirt, a street-bargain he humorously valued. Historically, Turkish cemeteries were integrated into city life, serving as gardens. This photo, a casual snapshot, captures John Ash’s preference for being viewed from a distance, a perspective mirrored in how he presented himself through his work. It is this view, through his poetry, that remains.
Vince Czyz is the author of The Christos Mosaic, a novel, and Adrift in a Vanishing City, a collection of short fiction. He is the recipient of the Faulkner Prize for Short Fiction and two NJ Arts Council fellowships. The 2011 Capote Fellow, his work has appeared in many publications, including New England Review, Shenandoah, AGNI, The Massachusetts Review, Georgetown Review, Quiddity, Tampa Review, Boston Review, and Louisiana Literature.
