Frank O'Hara

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

Frank O'Hara Poems

1. 1951 1/13/2003
2. A City Winter 1/13/2003
3. A Quiet Poem 1/13/2003
4. A Step Away From Them 1/13/2003
5. A True Account Of Talking To The Sun On Fire Island 1/20/2003
6. Animals 3/29/2012
7. Ann Arbor Variations 1/13/2003
8. As Planned 1/13/2003
9. At Joan's 1/13/2003
10. At Night Chinamen Jump 1/13/2003
11. Autobiographia Literaria 1/13/2003
12. Ave Maria 1/13/2003
13. Call Me 1/13/2003
14. Chinamen Jump 1/13/2003
15. Digression On Number 1, 1948 1/13/2003
16. Five Poems 1/23/2015
17. For Grace, After A Party 1/13/2003
18. Having A Coke With You 3/27/2015
19. Homosexuality 1/13/2003
20. In Memory Of My Feelings 1/20/2003
21. Jane Awake 1/13/2003
22. Lines For The Fortune Cookies 1/13/2003
23. Mayakovsky 3/29/2012
24. Meditations In An Emergency 1/13/2003
25. Melancholy Breakfast 1/13/2003
26. Morning 1/13/2003
27. Music 1/13/2003
28. My Heart 1/13/2003
29. On Seeing Larry Rivers' Washington Crossing The Delaware At The Museum Of Modern Art 1/13/2003
30. Personal Poem 3/29/2012
31. Poem (Hate Is Only One Of Many Responses) 1/13/2003
32. Poem (Lana Turner Has Collapsed!) 1/13/2003
33. POEM EN FORME DE SAW 11/16/2016
34. Rhapsody 3/29/2012
35. Sleeping On The Wing 3/29/2012
36. Song (Did You See Me Walking By The Buick Repairs?) 1/13/2003
37. Song (Is It Dirty) 1/13/2003
38. Spleen 1/13/2003
39. Steps 1/13/2003
40. The Day Lady Died 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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