Frank O'Hara

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

Frank O'Hara Poems

1. Rhapsody 3/29/2012
2. To The Film Industry In Crisis 3/29/2012
3. Personal Poem 3/29/2012
4. Five Poems 1/23/2015
5. Sleeping On The Wing 3/29/2012
6. Today 3/29/2012
7. Having A Coke With You 3/27/2015
8. Mayakovsky 3/29/2012
9. Animals 3/29/2012
10. V.R. Lang 1/13/2003
11. Spleen 1/13/2003
12. Song (Did You See Me Walking By The Buick Repairs?) 1/13/2003
13. Steps 1/13/2003
14. To The Harbormaster 1/13/2003
15. The Eager Note On My Door Said "Call Me," 1/13/2003
16. On Seeing Larry Rivers' Washington Crossing The Delaware At The Museum Of Modern Art 1/13/2003
17. At Night Chinamen Jump 1/13/2003
18. Song (Is It Dirty) 1/13/2003
19. Chinamen Jump 1/13/2003
20. Poem (Hate Is Only One Of Many Responses) 1/13/2003
21. At Joan's 1/13/2003
22. 1951 1/13/2003
23. Jane Awake 1/13/2003
24. Poem (Lana Turner Has Collapsed!) 1/13/2003
25. Ann Arbor Variations 1/13/2003
26. Call Me 1/13/2003
27. Melancholy Breakfast 1/13/2003
28. Digression On Number 1, 1948 1/13/2003
29. Ave Maria 1/13/2003
30. A City Winter 1/13/2003
31. A Step Away From Them 1/13/2003
32. Music 1/13/2003
33. My Heart 1/13/2003
34. The Day Lady Died 1/13/2003
35. A Quiet Poem 1/13/2003
36. As Planned 1/13/2003
37. In Memory Of My Feelings 1/20/2003
38. A True Account Of Talking To The Sun On Fire Island 1/20/2003
39. Autobiographia Literaria 1/13/2003
40. Lines For The Fortune Cookies 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

A Quiet Poem

When music is far enough away
the eyelid does not often move

and objects are still as lavender
without breath or distant rejoinder.

The cloud is then so subtly dragged
away by the silver flying machine

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