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|
|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|
|49.||A True Account Of Talking To The Sun On Fire Island||1/20/2003|
|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 ...
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