The poem is sad because it wants to be yours, and cannot be.

Hear the tender words of John Ashbery, poet of mystery and depth, who confessed: “The poem is sad because it wants to be yours, and cannot be.” In these words lies not only the ache of art, but the eternal struggle of all creation—the longing to be understood, to be claimed by another heart, and yet the sorrow of distance that remains between the work and the soul of its reader. The poet births the poem, but once it is loosed upon the world, it lives apart, yearning for full possession, but never fully possessed.

To say that a poem is sad is to speak of art as a living thing, filled with yearning. It does not simply exist as ink upon paper, but as a spirit reaching outward, hoping to be received, hoping to dwell within the heart of another. Yet no matter how close a reader comes, there is always some unbridgeable space between the poem’s inner world and the reader’s comprehension. Like two lovers gazing across a river, they reach but cannot wholly touch. Hence, the sadness: the poem desires to give itself completely, but cannot.

This sorrow is not confined to poetry. Consider the story of Vincent van Gogh, who poured his soul onto the canvas. His paintings—vivid fields, burning skies, starry nights—were his way of crying out to the world: “Here I am, see me, know me.” Yet in his lifetime, the world turned away. His art longed to belong to others, to be cherished, but it remained unclaimed. Only after his death did humanity recognize the gift he had tried to give. Here, too, the art was sad, for it wanted to be theirs and could not be.

Ashbery’s wisdom also points to the fragile bond between creator and audience. The artist surrenders his creation to the world, but cannot control how it will be understood. Misinterpretation, indifference, or neglect may follow, and in that gap lies sorrow. Yet, paradoxically, it is in this very distance that art’s power is born. For if the poem could be wholly possessed, it would cease to be a mystery, and its beauty would vanish. Its sadness, therefore, is also its gift—the eternal yearning that keeps drawing us back to read again, to gaze again, to listen again.

The teaching is profound: art, like love, is never fully ours. We may approach it, taste it, and carry fragments within us, but we can never exhaust its depths. And perhaps it is this incompleteness that makes it sacred. Just as no person can be wholly possessed by another, so no poem, no song, no painting can be wholly owned by its beholder. It remains always partly other, partly beyond reach—sad in its distance, yet luminous in its offering.

Practical is this counsel: when you read a poem, listen not only with the mind but with the heart. Accept that you will never fully contain it, but let its yearning meet your own. Do not demand complete understanding, but dwell in the beauty of the mystery. And if you are a creator, know that your work will never wholly be “owned” by others; let this truth not embitter you, but free you. Your task is to give, and in the giving lies the nobility, even if perfect possession is denied.

Therefore, O listener, remember Ashbery’s words: the poem is sad because it wants to be yours, and cannot be. This sadness is not defeat, but the mark of art’s eternal longing, the same longing that binds human souls across time and space. Cherish the gift even in its incompleteness, and let the unbridgeable distance become a place of reverence. For in that longing, both art and life find their deepest beauty.