Frank O'Hara

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

Frank O'Hara Poems

41. A City Winter 1/13/2003
42. Meditations In An Emergency 1/13/2003
43. In Memory Of My Feelings 1/20/2003
44. Autobiographia Literaria 1/13/2003
45. Lines For The Fortune Cookies 1/13/2003
46. A Quiet Poem 1/13/2003
47. For Grace, After A Party 1/13/2003
48. Homosexuality 1/13/2003
49. A True Account Of Talking To The Sun On Fire Island 1/20/2003
50. My Heart 1/13/2003
51. Morning 1/13/2003
52. Why I Am Not A Painter 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

To The Harbormaster

I wanted to be sure to reach you;
though my ship was on the way it got caught
in some moorings. I am always tying up
and then deciding to depart. In storms and
at sunset, with the metallic coils of the tide
around my fathomless arms, I am unable
to understand the forms of my vanity
or I am hard alee with my Polish rudder
in my hand and the sun sinking. To

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