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.
Leave a guest comment (subject to review)
Comments
-
From guest mike scott (contact)
truly amazing, to sum up so much. brilliantly true how he the poet adds and adds until it doesnt matter what began the adding, not certain of what he's been doing until it's done — partially the opposite process to the painter; often (although contrary in modern art which was the era) with his intention before beginning. my favourite o hara along with Steps. -
By far my favorite O Hara. The irony, of course, is most noticable when it comes to this poem. I think the thing that most poets can relate to is the a poem about one subject, without even mentioning it (you can reflect that back to everyday life). My favorite part is how Frank passes the time, it is just so everyday.
Last note. THe picture he is talking about is:
Michael Goldberg, Sardines, 1955
and I would give my pinky finger to have it.
Adding your comment:
