Tuesday, 14 June 2011

Frank O'Hara

What a big piece of wank poetry can be.

I've been trying to work on some new pieces for a while and the pressure of consistently turning out quality gets at you!

Also, I've had a number of rejections from publications recently and that grates your confidence. I was asked to submit 6 of my favourite poems and I couldn't... I feel like I've never written a good poem in my life.

So, I've decided to stop writing for a while... do something else...and you know, I'm enjoying my time away from the desk...

Finding this poem by Frank O'Hara cheered me up some.

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 of
a color: orange. I write a line
about orange. Pretty soon it is a
whole page of words, not lines.
Then another page. There should be
so much more, not of orange, of
words, of how terrible orange is
and life. Days go by. It is even in
prose, I am a real poet. My poem
is finished and I haven't mentioned
orange yet. It's twelve poems, I call
it ORANGES. And one day in a gallery
I see Mike's painting, called SARDINES.

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