A True Account of Talking to the Sun at Fire Island
The Sun woke me this morning loud
and clear, saying “Hey! I’ve been
trying to wake you up for fifteen
minutes. Don’t be so rude, you are
only the second poet I’ve ever chosen
to speak to personally
so why
aren’t you more attentive? If I could
burn you through the window I would
to wake you up. I can’t hang around
here all day.”
“Sorry, Sun, I stayed
up late last night talking to Hal.”
“When I woke up Mayakovsky he was
a lot more prompt” the Sun said
petulantly. “Most people are up
already waiting to see if I’m going
to put in an appearance.”
I tried
to apologize “I missed you yesterday.”
“That’s better” he said. “I didn’t
know you’d come out.” “You may be wondering why I’ve come so close?”
“Yes” I said beginning to feel hot
and wondering if maybe he wasn’t burning me
anyway.
“Frankly I wanted to tell you
I like your poetry. I see a lot
on my rounds and you’re okay. You may
not be the greatest thing on earth, but
you’re different. Now, I’ve heard some
say you’re crazy, they being excessively
calm themselves to my mind, and other
crazy poets think that you’re a boring
reactionary. Not me.
Just keep on
like I do and pay no attention. You’ll
find that some people always will
complain about the atmosphere,
either too hot
or too cold too bright or too dark, days
too short or too long.
If you don’t appear
at all one day they think you’re lazy
or dead. Just keep right on, I like it.
And don’t worry about your lineage
poetic or natural. The Sun shines on
the jungle, you know, on the tundra
the sea, the ghetto. Wherever you were
I knew it and saw you moving. I was waiting
for you to get to work.
And now that you
are making your own days, so to speak,
even if no one reads you but me
you won’t be depressed. Not
everyone can look up, even at me. It
hurts their eyes.”
“Oh Sun, I’m so grateful to you!”
“Thanks and remember I’m watching. It’s
easier for me to speak to you out
here. I don’t have to slide down
between buildings to get your ear.
I know you love Manhattan, but
you ought to look up more often.
And
always embrace things, people earth
sky stars, as I do, freely and with
the appropriate sense of space. That
is your inclination, known in the heavens
and you should follow it to hell, if
necessary, which I doubt.
Maybe we’ll
speak again in Africa, of which I too
am specially fond. Go back to sleep now
Frank, and I may leave a tiny poem
in that brain of yours as my farewell.”
“Sun, don’t go!” I was awake
at last. “No, go I must, they’re calling
me.”
“Who are they?”
Rising he said “Some
day you’ll know. They’re calling to you
too.” Darkly he rose, and then I slept.
This poem, out of all the O’Haras we have seen thus far, speaks the most to me. It’s so simple, and even a bit childish, but it seems as if it could have a deeper meaning than even the most complex of poetry. It appears to be a friendly conversation between two acquaintances, but in fact it is one schooling the other on the little things in life he is missing out on. The sun brings up the point of how living in the big city taints ones view, causing them to ignore the finer things such as just looking at the stars or rising with the sun. That in this fast paced life, no one can be satisfied with anything; they are always complaining about one thing or another. This has always been my take. I am not a city a person in the least. I feel that the skyscrapers and the immensely bright lights cloud a persons mind and obscure their view of what is really beautiful. Everyone in the city rushes around concerned only about themselves and their lives, paying no heed to what is around them. At the same time that all this is going on in the poem I a get a feeling that the sun is a higher being, a god figure of sorts. He talks about how he has watched O’Hara wherever he went, makes mention of the heavens and hell, and speaks of unknown people who are calling to him, and who are also calling to O’Hara though he doesn’t know it yet. The sun to me has always had a certain euphoria about it, as if it is more than what science depicts it to be. At times it can be warm, comforting, and inviting, but at others it can be just the opposite and offer nothing at all. Most people speak of the moon as the celestial body that is more than meets the eye because night it often associated with these types of ideas. By choosing the sun, O’Hara put a new refreshing spin on things, one that connected more with me, and got me thinking again about what might really be going on outside these walls of towering buildings.