Frank O'Hara Poems
|41.||The Day Lady Died||1/13/2003|
|42.||A Step Away From Them||1/13/2003|
|43.||Meditations In An Emergency||1/13/2003|
|44.||In Memory Of My Feelings||1/20/2003|
|45.||A True Account Of Talking To The Sun On Fire Island||1/20/2003|
|47.||For Grace, After A Party||1/13/2003|
|48.||Lines For The Fortune Cookies||1/13/2003|
|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 ...
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