Frank O'Hara Poems
|41.||A Quiet Poem||1/13/2003|
|42.||Meditations In An Emergency||1/13/2003|
|43.||A Step Away From Them||1/13/2003|
|44.||A True Account Of Talking To The Sun On Fire Island||1/20/2003|
|45.||Lines For The Fortune Cookies||1/13/2003|
|46.||For Grace, After A Party||1/13/2003|
|48.||In Memory Of My Feelings||1/20/2003|
|52.||Why I Am Not A Painter||1/13/2003|
Comments about 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 ...
How funny you are today New York
like Ginger Rogers in Swingtime
and St. Bridget's steeple leaning a little to the left
here I have just jumped out of a bed full of V-days
(I got tired of D-days) and blue you there still
accepts me foolish and free
all I want is a room up there
and you in it