Morning Poem I’ve got to tell you how I love you always I think of it on grey mornings with death in my mouth the tea is never hot enough then and the cigarette dry the maroon robe chills me I need you and look out the window at the noiseless snow At night on… Continue reading Frank O’Hara
You’ll never be mentally sober. — Frank O’Hara, from “On Rachmaninoff’s Birthday,” Lunch Poems. (City Lights Publishers; 1st edition, January 1, 2001) Originally published 1964.
It is almost three I sit at the marble top sorting poems, miserable the little lamp glows feebly I don’t glow at all I have another cognac and stare at two little paintings of Jean-Paul’s, so great I must do so much or did they just happen the breeze is cool barely a sound filters… Continue reading Frank O’Hara
What is restored Becomes stronger than the loss as it is remembered; Is a new, separate life of its own. A new color. Seriously blue. Unquestioning. Acidly sweet. Must we then pick up the pieces (But what are the pieces, if not separate puzzles themselves, And meanwhile rain abrades the window?) — John Ashbery, from… Continue reading John Ashbery
Jane Awake The opals hiding your lids as you sleep, as you ride ponies mysteriously, spring to bloom like the blue flowers of autumn each nine o’clock. And curls tumble languorously towards the yawning rubber band, tan, your hand pressing all that riotous black sleep into the quiet form of daylight and its sunny disregard… Continue reading Frank O’Hara
Somewhere, someoneListens for your laugh, swallows it like a drink of cool water, — John Ashbery, from “Ditto, Kiddo,” A Wave (Open Road Media, 2014; first published 1984)
Light clarity avocado salad in the morning after all the terrible things I do how amazing it is to find forgiveness and love, not even forgiveness since what is done is done and forgiveness isn’t love and love is love nothing can ever go wrong though things can get irritating boring and dispensable (in the… Continue reading Frank O’Hara