Frank O'Hara

(27 March 1926 – 25 July 1966 / Baltimore, Maryland)

Frank O'Hara Poems

1. Yesterday Down at the Canal 11/16/2016
2. POEM EN FORME DE SAW 11/16/2016
3. Adieu to Norman, Bon Jour to Joan and Jean-Paul 6/24/2017
4. Poem ["Khrushchev is coming on the right day!"] 6/24/2017
5. Poem (At night Chinamen jump) 6/24/2017
6. Chez Jane 6/24/2017
7. Poem ["The eager note on my door said, ‘Call me,'"] 6/24/2017
8. To The Film Industry In Crisis 3/29/2012
9. Rhapsody 3/29/2012
10. Today 3/29/2012
11. Five Poems 1/23/2015
12. Personal Poem 3/29/2012
13. Sleeping On The Wing 3/29/2012
14. Mayakovsky 3/29/2012
15. Having A Coke With You 3/27/2015
16. Spleen 1/13/2003
17. V.R. Lang 1/13/2003
18. Animals 3/29/2012
19. Song (Did You See Me Walking By The Buick Repairs?) 1/13/2003
20. The Eager Note On My Door Said "Call Me," 1/13/2003
21. Song (Is It Dirty) 1/13/2003
22. To The Harbormaster 1/13/2003
23. At Night Chinamen Jump 1/13/2003
24. On Seeing Larry Rivers' Washington Crossing The Delaware At The Museum Of Modern Art 1/13/2003
25. Steps 1/13/2003
26. Chinamen Jump 1/13/2003
27. At Joan's 1/13/2003
28. 1951 1/13/2003
29. Poem (Lana Turner Has Collapsed!) 1/13/2003
30. Poem (Hate Is Only One Of Many Responses) 1/13/2003
31. Ann Arbor Variations 1/13/2003
32. Ave Maria 1/13/2003
33. My Heart 1/13/2003
34. Jane Awake 1/13/2003
35. Call Me 1/13/2003
36. Melancholy Breakfast 1/13/2003
37. The Day Lady Died 1/13/2003
38. Digression On Number 1, 1948 1/13/2003
39. A City Winter 1/13/2003
40. A Quiet Poem 1/13/2003
Best Poem of Frank O'Hara

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 ...

Read the full of Why I Am Not A Painter

A Quiet Poem

When music is far enough away
the eyelid does not often move

and objects are still as lavender
without breath or distant rejoinder.

The cloud is then so subtly dragged
away by the silver flying machine

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