Angels at the window

other peoples blogs

when I am bored or can’t sleep I sometimes look on other peoples tumbler sites - there are a couple that have amazing photography, some that have hilarious drawings, some that make me want to be young and in love many that inspire …

and this reblogging thing is strange -

I prefer to let OPT (other peoples  tumblers) catapult me into the endless abyss that is the Bermuda Triangle of the internet or library.

There is a photo of someone holding a book of Frank O’Hara’s poetry - or maybe it is a biography.. We all lost O’Hara way too young.  Here is a taste of how brilliant his work is…

and also here is a website    http://www.frankohara.com/ 

 Frank O’Hara

(1926-1966)

 

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.