Francis Russell "Frank" O'Hara was an American writer, poet and art critic. He was a member of the New York School of poetry.
Frank O'Hara, the son of Russell Joseph O'Hara and Katherine (née Broderick) was born on March 27, 1926, at Maryland General Hospital, Baltimore and grew up in Grafton, Massachusetts. He attended St. John's High School in Worcester. He grew up believing he had been born in June, but in fact had been born in March, his parents having disguised his true date of birth because he was conceived out of wedlock. He studied piano at the New England Conservatory in Boston from 1941 to 1944 and served in the South Pacific and Japan as a ... more »
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Frank O'Hara Poems
Why I Am Not A Painter
I am not a painter, I am a poet. Why? I think I would rather be a painter, but I am not. Well,
I've got to tell you how I love you always I think of it on grey mornings with death
So we are taking off our masks, are we, and keeping our mouths shut? as if we'd been pierced by a glance! The song of an old cow is not more full of judgment
When I was a child I played by myself in a corner of the schoolyard all alone.
Lines For The Fortune Cookies
I think you're wonderful and so does everyone else. Just as Jackie Kennedy has a baby boy, so will you--even bigger.
A True Account of Talking to the Sun on ...
The Sun woke me this morning loud and clear, saying "Hey! I've been trying to wake you up for fifteen minutes. Don't be so rude, you are
A Quiet Poem
When music is far enough away the eyelid does not often move and objects are still as lavender
For Grace, After A Party
You do not always know what I am feeling. Last night in the warm spring air while I was blazing my tirade against someone who doesn't interest
Meditations In An Emergency
Am I to become profligate as if I were a blonde? Or religious as if I were French? Each time my heart is broken it makes me feel more adventurous
Digression On Number 1, 1948
I am ill today but I am not too ill. I am not ill at all. It is a perfect day, warm for winter, cold for fall.
After the first glass of vodka you can accept just about anything of life even your own mysteriousness you think it is nice that a box
In Memory of My Feelings
My quietness has a man in it, he is transparent and he carries me quietly, like a gondola, through the streets. He has several likenesses, like stars and years, like numerals.
I'm not going to cry all the time nor shall I laugh all the time, I don't prefer one "strain" to another. I'd have the immediacy of a bad movie,
A City Winter
1 I understand the boredom of the clerks fatigue shifting like dunes within their eyes a frightful nausea gumming up the works
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
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Edgar Allan Poe
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(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
Why I Am Not A Painter
I am not a painter, I am a poet.
Why? I think I would rather be
a painter, but I am not. Well,
for instance, Mike Goldberg
is starting a painting. I drop in.
"Sit down and have a drink" he
says. I drink; we drink. I look
up. "You have SARDINES in it."
"Yes, it needed something there."
"Oh." I go and the days go by
and I drop in again. The painting
is going on, and I go, and the days
go by. I drop in. The painting is
finished. "Where's SARDINES?"
All that's left is just
letters, "It was too much," Mike says.
But me? One day I am thinking ...