The Arts in New York City

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.

In this Frank O’Hara poem, many different aspects of New York City are being described. He first sets a mood, discussing the dreary weather and compares it to the streets of New York; gloomy, overcrowded, and unwelcoming. He uses this as foreshadowing to the event of Lana Turner’s collapse. O’Hara describes the action and chaos that occurs in the city. The traffic full of people all trying to go somewhere different, and the large amount of parties that he has personally attended. He compares this to the the apects of California. Stating that “there is no snow in Hollywood, there is no rain in California”, O’Hara is relaying that New York is a much more upbeat town, with alot more action and adventure.

Lana Turner has Collapsed (pg449)

Lana Turner has collapsed!
I was trotting along and suddenly
it started raining and snowing
and you said it was hailing
but hailing hits you on the head
hard so it was really snowing and
raining and I was in such a hurry
to meet you but the traffic
was acting exactly like the sky
and suddenly I see a headline
LANA TURNER HAS COLLAPSED!
there is no snow in Hollywood
there is no rain in California
I have been to lots of parties
and acted perfectly disgraceful
but I never actually collapsed
oh Lana Turner we love you get up

This poem has a very sarcastic and fast pace to it, which represents New York in many aspects–especially with how 24 hours a day there are flocks of people on the streets with soaring cars left and right. Lana Turner was a famous actress of the 1940’s and 1950’s and it is said that O’hara wrote that poem after Lana Turner’s infamous murder case. I had discussions on this case, in drama class, in eigth grade and the plot lies with Turner’s daughter. Supposedly the young girl stabbed her mother’s lover becuase she was afraid he was going to hurt her. This poem is a little different from the rest of O’hara’s poems because this one talks about pop culture. For once its as if O’Hara is trying to make a connection with the audience by using words such as “you” and “we”. Lana Turner’s mentioning in the poem would draw attention from many audiences soley because everyone knew of her. I enjoyed this one a lot more then most of his other work where the interpretation lies within the reader. In “Lana Turner has Collapsed” it is clear that O’Hara is discussing the attitude of New York which transcends into life in L.A.. The main focus lies on this pop diva/pin up doll who was a drama queen both on and off stage.
One interesting fact about this poem is that O’Hara wrote it as he was on the Staten Island Feery.

A Step Away From Them

It’s my lunch hour, so I go
for a walk among the hum-colored
cabs. First, down the sidewalk
where laborers feed their dirty
glistening torsos sandwiches
and Coca-Cola, with yellow helmets
frank on the phone on. They protect them from falling
bricks, I guess. Then onto the
avenue where skirts are flipping
above heels and blow up over
grates. The sun is hot, but the
cabs stir up the air. I look
at bargains in wristwatches. There
are cats playing in sawdust.

On
to Times Square, where the sign
blows smoke over my head, and higher
the waterfall pours lightly. A
Negro stands in a doorway with a
toothpick, languorously agitating
A blonde chorus girl clicks: he
smiles and rubs his chin. Everything
suddenly honks: it is 12:40 of
a Thursday.

Neon in daylight is a
great pleasure, as Edwin Denby would
write, as are light bulbs in daylight.
I stop for a cheeseburger at JULIET’S
CORNER. Giulietta Maina, wife of
Federico Fellini, é bell’ attrice.
And chocolate malted. A lady in
foxes on such a day puts her poodle
in a cab.

There are several Puerto
Ricans on the avenue today, which
makes it beautiful and warm. First
Bunny died, then John Latouche,
then Jackson Pollock. But is the
earth as full of life was full, of them?
And one has eaten and one walks,
past the magazines with nudes
and the posters for BULLFIGHT and
the Manhatten Storage Warehouse,
which they’ll soon tear down. I
used to think they had the Armory
Show there.

A glass of papaya juice
and back to work. My heart is in my
pocket, it is Poems by Pierre Reverdy.

“A Step Away From Them”

Frank O’Hara is describing the city as he steps out of for lunch. I really like the poem, because of its details. He even mentions the time. Not only do I visualize the city, I hear it too. I could see and hear all the cabs when he says I walk among the hum colored cabs. I have the sense that I am the one walking down the busy streets of Manhattan, watching the vendors sell watches, and the construction workers eat their lunch. Everything is described with such meticulousness, that I feel like I would be able to paint this poem without a strain.

Portrait of Frank O’Hara by Wolf Khan

This poem was underneath “A Step Away From Them” on page 258, and it caught my eye because I’ve been a French student since I was in 6th grade, so I decided to translate it. It’s definitely not exact, and I had to look in the dictionary for some of the words, but here goes!

What of Us!

The crisis, no longer out in the open
the beautiful smiles of the sinister

like a break-in of morbid angels
where the lemons flourish, I have been

next to the skin, the presence of death
and the blind hum resonates

Kiss me, the hour is gray
and the hunt carries away a calm mastership

of oneself – yourself - like at each reunion
it is very rare, elsewhere, the atrocious cry

because in this world where more and more
I have myself received a furious homily