The Arts in New York City

All of a sudden all the world

is blonde. The Negro on my left

is blonde, his eyes are brimming

like a chalice, he is melting

the gold.

Beside me, passed out

on the floor, a novelist burns a hole

in my pants and he is blonde,

even the cigarette is. Some kind

of Russian cigarette.

Jean Cocteau

must be blonde too. And the music

of William Boyce.

Yes and what

comes out of me is blonde.

I liked this poem because I think it has more than one meaning to it because O’Hara kind of leaves it open for interpretation. I think that he was in a very good mood when he was writing it, using the blonde to represent brightness and happiness. Also I believe that he’s using the word blonde instead of sun or light or a word like that because he was seeing someone who was blonde at the time and that was his inspiration. He is so into this new guy that he’s with that he can see the good in everyone and in the line “passed out on the floor, a novelist burns a hole in my pants and he is blonde” O’Hara is even seeing the positiveness of a novelist who is passed out drunk on the floor by saying that he is blonde. While reading this poem, the word blonde seems to only be figuratively meaning good and positive things.

Frank O’Hara has often utilized a style of writing know as the the “I do this, I do that.” Throughout Poem (Lana Turner has collapsed), he mentions a list of activities her did for the day. They seem useless, until the last line of the poem where seems to sarcastically say “Lana Turner has collapsed.” The activities of the day seems to pass quickly. This mirrors the attitude of NYC in that everything is fast paced and breathless.

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
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 Masina, wife of
Federico Fellini, e 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 Pollack. But is the
earth as full as life was full, of them?
And one has eaten and one walks,
past the magazines with nudes
and the posters for BULLFIGHT and
the Manhattan 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.

I think this is one of O’Hara’s hit or miss poems, the kind that evokes one of two reactions in people: the first being a delighted contentment, not needing any kind of explanation on the matter. The second (and probably more common) is closer to confusion. It’s not the most outlandish poem O’Hara’s written (Chez Jane, anyone?), but it seems to be just a random collection of the sights of the city, a sort of catalogue of landmarks and familiarities O’Hara would see every day on his lunch break…which I suppose is what the “art” in it is supposed to be? It’s debatable, as usual with O’Hara’s poems.

To be more fair, it might be more of an attempted escape from the unwavering reality of the city life for O’Hara, as the poem’s title seems to imply - O’Hara’s lunch break is supposed to be a relaxing hour when he can leave the city’s atmosphere and enjoy time off, yet even on his break he can’t seem to escape the familiar. Maybe a more satisfactory “step away from them” came in the form of the Hamptons for O’Hara…perhaps that is what he’s alluding to in this poem.