842: Why I Am Not a Painter
"Why I Am Not a Painter"
Frank O'Hara
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.
Based on the responses to the question yesterday regarding a poetry critiquing community, I have decided to create one. It is called hiatusofwinter and is a community for which you must request membership in order to see entries and comment. Poems you have written, sent to the community email (hiatusofwinterATgmailDOTcom), will be posted by me with or without any of your identifying information (your choice) but with a disclaimer stating that it is a work in progress. If you have any thoughts, concerns, questions, suggestions, et cetera, please express them.
Frank O'Hara
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.
Based on the responses to the question yesterday regarding a poetry critiquing community, I have decided to create one. It is called hiatusofwinter and is a community for which you must request membership in order to see entries and comment. Poems you have written, sent to the community email (hiatusofwinterATgmailDOTcom), will be posted by me with or without any of your identifying information (your choice) but with a disclaimer stating that it is a work in progress. If you have any thoughts, concerns, questions, suggestions, et cetera, please express them.