Frank O'Hara Poems
|43.||Lines For The Fortune Cookies||1/13/2003|
|44.||In Memory Of My Feelings||1/20/2003|
|46.||A Quiet Poem||1/13/2003|
|47.||Meditations In An Emergency||1/13/2003|
|48.||A True Account Of Talking To The Sun On Fire Island||1/20/2003|
|49.||A Step Away From Them||1/13/2003|
|50.||For Grace, After A Party||1/13/2003|
|52.||Why I Am Not A Painter||1/13/2003|
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 ...
The eager note on my door said "Call me,"
call when you get in!" so I quickly threw
a few tangerines into my overnight bag,
straightened my eyelids and shoulders, and
headed straight for the door. It was autumn
by the time I got around the corner, oh all
unwilling to be either pertinent or bemused, but
the leaves were brighter than grass on the sidewalk!