Frank O’Hara

Edited by Dale Smith

Week Seven

Adieu to Norman, Bon Jour to Joan and Jean-Paul

It is 12:10 in New York and I am wondering

if I will finish this in time to meet Norman for lunch

ah lunch! I think I am going crazy

what with my terrible hangover and the weekend coming up

at excitement-prone Kenneth Koch’s

I wish I were staying in town and working on my poems

at Joan’s studio for a new book by Grove Press

which they will probably not print

but it is good to be several floors up in the dead of night

wondering whether you are any good or not

and the only decision you can make is that you did it

yesterday I looked up the rue Frémicourt on a map

and was happy to find it like a bird

flying over Paris et ses environs

which unfortunately did not include Seine-et-Oise

which I don’t know

as well as a number of other things

and Allen is back talking about god a lot

and Peter is back not talking very much

and Joe has a cold and is not coming to Kenneth’s

although he is coming to lunch with Norman

I suspect he is making a distinction

well, who isn’t

I wish I were reeling around Paris

instead of reeling around New York

I wish I weren’t reeling at all

it is Spring the ice has melted the Ricard is being poured

we are all happy and young and toothless

it is the same as old age

the only thing to do is simply continue

is that simple

yes, it is simple because it is the only thing to do

can you do it

yes, you can because it is the only thing to do

blue light over the Bois de Boulogne it continues

the Seine continues

the Louvre stays open it continues it hardly closes at all

the Bar Américain continues to be French

de Gaulle continues to be Algerian as does Camus

Shirley Goldfarb continues to be Shirley Goldfarb

and Jane Hazan continues to be Jane Freilicher (I think!)

and Irving Sandler continues to be the balayeur des artistes

and so do I (sometimes I think I’m “in love” with painting)

and surely the Piscine Deligny continues to have water in it

and the Flore continues to have tables and newspapers

and people under them

and surely we shall not continue to be unhappy

we shall be happy

but we shall continue to be ourselves everything

continues to be possible

René Char, Pierre Reverdy, Samuel Beckett it is possible isn’t it

I love Reverdy for saying yes, though I don’t believe it

Ann Arbor Variations

1

Wet heat drifts through the afternoon
like a campus dog, a fraternity ghost
waiting to stay home from football games.
The arches are empty clear to the sky.

Except for the leaves: those lashes of our
thinking and dreaming and drinking sight.
The spherical radiance, the Old English
look, the sum of our being, “hath perced
to the roote” all our springs and falls
and now rolls over our limpness, a daily
dragon. We lose our health in a love
of color, drown in a fountain of myriads,

as simply as children. It is too hot,
our birth was given up to screaming. Our
life on these street lawns seems silent.
The leaves chatter their comparisons

Augustus

Read Augustus on the Poetry Foundation site.

Aus Einem April

Read Aus Einem April on the Poetry Foundation site.

Ave Maria

Mothers of America

let your kids go to the movies!

get them out of the house so they won’t know what you’re up to

it’s true that fresh air is good for the body

but what about the soul

that grows in darkness, embossed by silvery images

and when you grow old as grow old you must

they won’t hate you

they won’t criticize you they won’t know

they’ll be in some glamorous country

they first saw on a Saturday afternoon or playing hookey

they may even be grateful to you

for their first sexual experience

which only cost you a quarter

and didn’t upset the peaceful home

they will know where candy bars come from

and gratuitous bags of popcorn

as gratuitous as leaving the movie before it’s over

with a pleasant stranger whose apartment is in the Heaven on Earth Bldg

near the Williamsburg Bridge

oh mothers you will have made the little tykes

so happy because if nobody does pick them up in the movies

they won’t know the difference

and if somebody does it’ll be sheer gravy

and they’ll have been truly entertained either way

instead of hanging around the yard

or up in their room

hating you

prematurely since you won’t have done anything horribly mean yet

except keeping them from the darker joys

it’s unforgivable the latter

so don’t blame me if you won’t take this advice

and the family breaks up

and your children grow old and blind in front of a TV set

seeing

movies you wouldn’t let them see when they were young

Cambridge

Read Cambridge on the Poetry Foundation site.

Chez Jane

The white chocolate jar full of petals

swills odds and ends around in a dizzying eye

of four o’clocks now and to come. The tiger,

marvellously striped and irritable, leaps

on the table and without disturbing a hair

of the flowers’ breathless attention, pisses

into the pot, right down its delicate spout.

A whisper of steam goes up from that porcelain

urethra. “Saint-Saëns!” it seems to be whispering,

curling unerringly around the furry nuts

of the terrible puss, who is mentally flexing.

Ah be with me always, spirit of noisy

contemplation in the studio, the Garden

of Zoos, the eternally fixed afternoons!

There, while music scratches its scrofulous

stomach, the brute beast emerges and stands,

clear and careful, knowing always the exact peril

at this moment caressing his fangs with

a tongue given wholly to luxurious usages;

which only a moment before dropped aspirin

in this sunset of roses, and now throws a chair

in the air to aggravate the truly menacing.

The Day Lady Died

It is 12:20 in New York a Friday

three days after Bastille day, yes

it is 1959 and I go get a shoeshine

because I will get off the 4:19 in Easthampton

at 7:15 and then go straight to dinner

and I don’t know the people who will feed me

I walk up the muggy street beginning to sun

and have a hamburger and a malted and buy

an ugly NEW WORLD WRITING to see what the poets

in Ghana are doing these days

I go on to the bank

and Miss Stillwagon (first name Linda I once heard)

doesn’t even look up my balance for once in her life

and in the GOLDEN GRIFFIN I get a little Verlaine

for Patsy with drawings by Bonnard although I do

think of Hesiod, trans. Richmond Lattimore or

Brendan Behan’s new play or Le Balcon or Les Nègres

of Genet, but I don’t, I stick with Verlaine

after practically going to sleep with quandariness

and for Mike I just stroll into the PARK LANE

Liquor Store and ask for a bottle of Strega and

then I go back where I came from to 6th Avenue

and the tobacconist in the Ziegfeld Theatre and

casually ask for a carton of Gauloises and a carton

of Picayunes, and a NEW YORK POST with her face on it

and I am sweating a lot by now and thinking of

leaning on the john door in the 5 SPOT

while she whispered a song along the keyboard

to Mal Waldron and everyone and I stopped breathing

Dido

Read Dido on the Poetry Foundation site.

Dolce Colloquio

Read Dolce Colloquio on the Poetry Foundation site.

The Eyelid Has Its Storms . . .

Read The Eyelid Has Its Storms . . . on the Poetry Foundation site.

For James Dean

Read For James Dean on the Poetry Foundation Site.

For Janice and Kenneth to Voyage

Read For Janice and Kenneth Voyage on the Poetry Foundation site.

Homosexuality

Read Homosexuality on the Poetry Foundation site.

In Favor of One’s Time

Read In Favor of One’s Time on the Poetry Foundation site.

Intermezzo

Read Intermezzo on the Poetry Foundation site.

Lisztiana

Read Lisztiana on the Poetry Foundation site.

The Man Without a Country

Read The Man Without a Country on the Poetry Foundation site.

Maurice Ravel

Read Maurice Ravel on the Poetry Foundation site.

Mayakovsky

1

My heart’s aflutter!

I am standing in the bath tub

crying. Mother, mother

who am I? If he

will just come back once

and kiss me on the face

his coarse hair brush

my temple, it’s throbbing!

then I can put on my clothes

I guess, and walk the streets.

2

I love you. I love you,

but I’m turning to my verses

and my heart is closing

like a fist.

Words! be

sick as I am sick, swoon,

roll back your eyes, a pool,

and I’ll stare down

at my wounded beauty

which at best is only a talent

for poetry.

Cannot please, cannot charm or win

what a poet!

and the clear water is thick

with bloody blows on its head.

I embrace a cloud,

but when I soared

it rained.

3

That’s funny! there’s blood on my chest

oh yes, I’ve been carrying bricks

what a funny place to rupture!

and now it is raining on the ailanthus

as I step out onto the window ledge

the tracks below me are smoky and

glistening with a passion for running

I leap into the leaves, green like the sea

4

Now I am quietly waiting for

the catastrophe of my personality

to seem beautiful again,

and interesting, and modern.

The country is grey and

brown and white in trees,

snows and skies of laughter

always diminishing, less funny

not just darker, not just grey.

It may be the coldest day of

the year, what does he think of

that? I mean, what do I? And if I do,

perhaps I am myself again.

Meditations in an Emergency

Am I to become profligate as if I were a blonde? Or religious as if I were French?

Each time my heart is broken it makes me feel more adventurous (and how the same names keep recurring on that interminable list!), but one of these days there’ll be nothing left with which to venture forth.

Why should I share you? Why don’t you get rid of someone else for a change?

I am the least difficult of men. All I want is boundless love.

Even trees understand me! Good heavens, I lie under them, too, don’t I? I’m just like a pile of leaves.

However, I have never clogged myself with the praises of pastoral life, nor with nostalgia for an innocent past of perverted acts in pastures. No. One need never leave the confines of New York to get all the greenery one wishes—I can’t even enjoy a blade of grass unless I know there’s a subway handy, or a record store or some other sign that people do not totally regret life. It is more important to affirm the least sincere; the clouds get enough attention as it is and even they continue to pass. Do they know what they’re missing? Uh huh.

My eyes are vague blue, like the sky, and change all the time; they are indiscriminate but fleeting, entirely specific and disloyal, so that no one trusts me. I am always looking away. Or again at something after it has given me up. It makes me restless and that makes me unhappy, but I cannot keep them still. If only I had grey, green, black, brown, yellow eyes; I would stay at home and do something. It’s not that I am curious. On the contrary, I am bored but it’s my duty to be attentive, I am needed by things as the sky must be above the earth. And lately, so great has their anxiety become, I can spare myself little sleep.

Now there is only one man I love to kiss when he is unshaven. Heterosexuality! you are inexorably approaching. (How discourage her?)

St. Serapion, I wrap myself in the robes of your whiteness which is like midnight in Dostoevsky. How am I to become a legend, my dear? I’ve tried love, but that hides you in the bosom of another and I am always springing forth from it like the lotus—the ecstasy of always bursting forth! (but one must not be distracted by it!) or like a hyacinth, “to keep the filth of life away,” yes, there, even in the heart, where the filth is pumped in and courses and slanders and pollutes and determines. I will my will, though I may become famous for a mysterious vacancy in that department, that greenhouse.

Destroy yourself, if you don’t know!

It is easy to be beautiful; it is difficult to appear so. I admire you, beloved, for the trap you’ve set. It’s like a final chapter no one reads because the plot is over.

“Fanny Brown is run away—scampered off with a Cornet of Horse; I do love that little Minx, & hope She may be happy, tho’ She has vexed me by this Exploit a little too. —Poor silly Cecchina! or F:B: as we used to call her. —I wish She had a good Whipping and 10,000 pounds.” —Mrs. Thrale.

I’ve got to get out of here. I choose a piece of shawl and my dirtiest suntans. I’ll be back, I’ll re-emerge, defeated, from the valley; you don’t want me to go where you go, so I go where you don’t want me to. It’s only afternoon, there’s a lot ahead. There won’t be any mail downstairs. Turning, I spit in the lock and the knob turns.

The Mike Goldberg Variations

Read The Mike Goldberg Variations on the Poetry Foundation site.

Noir Cacadou, or the Fatal Music of War

Read Noir Cacadou, or the Fatal Music of War on the Poetry Foundation site.

A Note to Harold Fondren

Read A Note to Harold Fondren on the Poetry Foundation site.

Now It Is Light . . .

Read Now It Is Light . . . on the Poetry Foundation site.

On a Mountain

Read On a Mountain on the Poetry Foundation site.

On Rachmaninoff’s Birthday

Read On Rachmaninoff’s Birthday on the Poetry Foundation site.

On Seeing Larry Rivers’ “Washington Crossing the Delaware” at the Museum of Modern Art

Read On Seeing Larry Rivers’ “Washington Crossing the Delaware” at the Museum of Modern Art on the Poetry Foundation site.

Personal Poem

Now when I walk around at lunchtime

I have only two charms in my pocket

an old Roman coin Mike Kanemitsu gave me

and a bolt-head that broke off a packing case

when I was in Madrid the others never

brought me too much luck though they did

help keep me in New York against coercion

but now I’m happy for a time and interested

I walk through the luminous humidity

passing the House of Seagram with its wet

and its loungers and the construction to

the left that closed the sidewalk if

I ever get to be a construction worker

I’d like to have a silver hat please

and get to Moriarty’s where I wait for

LeRoi and hear who wants to be a mover and

shaker the last five years my batting average

is .016 that’s that, and LeRoi comes in

and tells me Miles Davis was clubbed 12

times last night outside birdland by a cop

a lady asks us for a nickel for a terrible

disease but we don’t give her one we

don’t like terrible diseases, then

we go eat some fish and some ale it’s

cool but crowded we don’t like Lionel Trilling

we decide, we like Don Allen we don’t like

Henry James so much we like Herman Melville

we don’t want to be in the poets’ walk in

San Francisco even we just want to be rich

and walk on girders in our silver hats

I wonder if one person out of the 8,000,000 is

thinking of me as I shake hands with LeRoi

and buy a strap for my wristwatch and go

back to work happy at the thought possibly so

Places for Oscar Salvador

Read Places for Oscar Salvador on the Poetry Foundation site.

Poem “À la recherche d’ Gertrude Stein”

When I am feeling depressed and anxious sullen

all you have to do is take your clothes off

and all is wiped away revealing life’s tenderness

that we are flesh and breathe and are near us

as you are really as you are I become as I

really am alive and knowing vaguely what is

and what is important to me above the intrusions

of incident and accidental relationships

which have nothing to do with my life

when I am in your presence I feel life is strong

and will defeat all its enemies and all of mine

and all of yours and yours in you and mine in me

sick logic and feeble reasoning are cured

by the perfect symmetry of your arms and legs

spread out making an eternal circle together

creating a golden pillar beside the Atlantic

the faint line of hair dividing your torso

gives my mind rest and emotions their release

into the infinite air where since once we are

together we always will be in this life come what may

Poem (At night Chinamen jump)

At night Chinamen jump
on Asia with a thump

while in our willful way
we, in secret, play

affectionate games and bruise
our knees like China’s shoes.

The birds push apples through
grass the moon turns blue,

these apples roll beneath
our buttocks like a heath

full of Chinese thrushes
flushed from China’s bushes.

As we love at night
birds sing out of sight,

Chinese rhythms beat
through us in our heat,

the apples and the birds
move us like soft words,

we couple in the grace
of that mysterious race.

Poem (“Green things are flowers…”

Read Poem (“Green things are flowers…”) on the Poetry Foundation site.

Poem (“Hate is only one…”)

Read Poem (“Hate is only one…”) on the Poetry Foundation site.

Poem (“I am not sure…”)

Read Poem (“I am not sure…”) on the Poetry Foundation site.

Poem in January

Read Poem in January on the Poetry Foundation site.

Poem (“Instant coffee with…”)

Read Poem (“Instant coffee with…”) on the Poetry Foundation site.

Poem [“Khrushchev is coming on the right day!”]

Krushchev is coming on the right day!

the cool graced light

is pushed off the enormous glass piers by hard wind

and everything is tossing, hurrying on up

this country

has everything but politesse, a Puerto Rican cab driver says

and five different girls I see

look like Piedie Gimbel

with her blonde hair tossing too,

as she looked when I pushed

her little daughter on the swing on the lawn it was also windy

last night we went to a movie and came out,

Ionesco is greater

than Beckett, Vincent said, that’s what I think, blueberry blintzes

and Khrushcev was probably being carped at

in Washington, no

politesse

Vincent tells me about his mother’s trip to Sweden

Hans tells us

about his father’s life in Sweden, it sounds like Grace Hartigan’s

painting Sweden

so I go home to bed and names drift through my

head

Purgatorio Merchado, Gerhard Schwartz and Gaspar Gonzales,

all unknown figures of the early morning as I go to work

where does the evil of the year go

when September takes New York

and turns it into ozone stalagmites

deposits of light

so I get back up

make coffee, and read François Villon, his life, so dark

New York seems blinding and my tie is blowing up the street

I wish it would blow off

though it is cold and somewhat warms

my neck

as the train bears Krushchev on to Pennsylvania Station

and the light seems to be eternal

and joy seems to be inexorable

I am foolish enough always to find it in wind

Poem [“Lana Turner has collapsed!”]

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

Poem [“The eager note on my door said, ‘Call me,’”]

The eager note on my door said “Call me,

call when you get in!” so I quickly threw

a few tangerines into my overnight bag,

straightened my eyelids and shoulders, and

headed straight for the door. It was autumn

by the time I got around the corner, oh all

unwilling to be either pertinent or bemused, but

the leaves were brighter than grass on the sidewalk!

Funny, I thought, that the lights are on this late

and the hall door open; still up at this hour, a

champion jai-alai player like himself? Oh fie!

for shame! What a host, so zealous! And he was

there in the hall, flat on a sheet of blood that

ran down the stairs. I did appreciate it. There are few

hosts who so thoroughly prepare to greet a guest

only casually invited, and that several months ago.

Princess Elizabeth of Bohemia, as Perdita

Read Princess Elizabeth of Bohemia, as Perdita on the Poetry Foundation site.

Radio

Read Radio on the Poetry Foundation site.

Rhapsody

515 Madison Avenue

door to heaven? portal

stopped realities and eternal licentiousness

or at least the jungle of impossible eagerness

your marble is bronze and your lianas elevator cables

swinging from the myth of ascending

I would join

or declining the challenge of racial attractions

they zing on (into the lynch, dear friends)

while everywhere love is breathing draftily

like a doorway linking 53rd with 54th

the east-bound with the west-bound traffic by 8,000,000s

o midtown tunnels and the tunnels, too, of Holland

where is the summit where all aims are clear

the pin-point light upon a fear of lust

as agony’s needlework grows up around the unicorn

and fences him for milk- and yoghurt-work

when I see Gianni I know he’s thinking of John Ericson

playing the Rachmaninoff 2nd or Elizabeth Taylor

taking sleeping-pills and Jane thinks of Manderley

and Irkutsk while I cough lightly in the smog of desire

and my eyes water achingly imitating the true blue

a sight of Manahatta in the towering needle

multi-faceted insight of the fly in the stringless labyrinth

Canada plans a higher place than the Empire State Building

I am getting into a cab at 9th Street and 1st Avenue

and the Negro driver tells me about a $120 apartment

“where you can’t walk across the floor after 10 at night

not even to pee, cause it keeps them awake downstairs”

no, I don’t like that “well, I didn’t take it”

perfect in the hot humid morning on my way to work

a little supper-club conversation for the mill of the gods

you were there always and you know all about these things

as indifferent as an encyclopedia with your calm brown eyes

it isn’t enough to smile when you run the gauntlet

you’ve got to spit like Niagara Falls on everybody or

Victoria Falls or at least the beautiful urban fountains of Madrid

as the Niger joins the Gulf of Guinea near the Menemsha Bar

that is what you learn in the early morning passing Madison Avenue

where you’ve never spent any time and stores eat up light

I have always wanted to be near it

though the day is long (and I don’t mean Madison Avenue)

lying in a hammock on St. Mark’s Place sorting my poems

in the rancid nourishment of this mountainous island

they are coming and we holy ones must go

is Tibet historically a part of China? as I historically

belong to the enormous bliss of American death

Romanze, or the Music Students

Read Romanze, or the Music Students on the Poetry Foundation site.

Room

Read Room on the Poetry Foundation site.

Round Objects

Read Round Objects on the Poetry Foundation site.

Saint

Read Saint on the Poetry Foundation site.

Serenade

Read Serenade on the Poetry Foundation site.

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

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 atJULIET’S

CORNER. Giulietta Masina, wife of

Federico Fellini,è 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 as life was full, of them?

And one has eaten and one walks,

past the magazines with nudes

and the posters forBULLFIGHTand

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.

Sudden Snow

Read Sudden Snow on the Poetry Foundation site.

To the Harbormaster

I wanted to be sure to reach you;

though my ship was on the way it got caught

in some moorings. I am always tying up

and then deciding to depart. In storms and

at sunset, with the metallic coils of the tide

around my fathomless arms, I am unable

to understand the forms of my vanity

or I am hard alee with my Polish rudder

in my hand and the sun sinking. To

you I offer my hull and the tattered cordage

of my will. The terrible channels where

the wind drives me against the brown lips

of the reeds are not all behind me. Yet

I trust the sanity of my vessel; and

if it sinks, it may well be in answer

to the reasoning of the eternal voices,

the waves which have kept me from reaching you.

To You

Read To You on the Poetry Foundation site.

The Tomb of Arnold Schoenberg

Read The Tomb of Arnold Schoenberg on the Poetry Foundation site.

Unicorn

Read Unicorn on the Poetry Foundation site.

Variations on Pasternak’s “Mein Liebchen, Was Willst Du Noch Mehr?”

Read Variations on Pasternak’s “Mein Liebchen, Was Willst Du Noch Mehr?” on the Poetry Foundation site.

Walking

Read Walking on the Poetry Foundation site.

Walking to Work

Read Walking to Work on the Poetry Foundation site.

A Wreath for John Wheelwright

Read A Wreath for John Wheelwright on the Poetry Foundation site.

Sources

“Adieu to Norman, Bon Jour to Joan and Jean-Paul” by Frank O’Hara is in the public domain. This version was retrieved from Poetry Foundation.

“Ann Arbor Variations” by Frank O’Hara is in the public domain. This version was retrieved from Poetry Foundation.

“Augustus” by Frank O’Hara is in the public domain. This version was retrieved from Poetry Foundation.

“Aus Einem April” by Frank O’Hara is in the public domain. This version was retrieved from Poetry Foundation.

“Ave Maria” by Frank O’Hara is in the public domain. This version was retrieved from Poetry Foundation.

“Cambridge” by Frank O’Hara is in the public domain. This version was retrieved from Poetry Foundation.

“Chez Jane” by Frank O’Hara is in the public domain. This version was retrieved from Poetry Foundation.

“The Day Lady Died” by Frank O’Hara is in the public domain. This version was retrieved from Poetry Foundation.

“Dido” by Frank O’Hara is in the public domain. This version was retrieved from Poetry Foundation.

“Dolce Colloquio” by Frank O’Hara is in the public domain. This version was retrieved from Poetry Foundation.

“The Eyelid Has Its Storms…” by Frank O’Hara is in the public domain. This version was retrieved from Poetry Foundation.

“For James Dean” by Frank O’Hara is in the public domain. This version was retrieved from Poetry Foundation.

“For Janice and Kenneth to Voyage” by Frank O’Hara is in the public domain. This version was retrieved from Poetry Foundation.

“Homosexuality” by Frank O’Hara is in the public domain. This version was retrieved from Poetry Foundation.

“In Favor of One’s Time” by Frank O’Hara is in the public domain. This version was retrieved from Poetry Foundation.

“Intermezzo” by Frank O’Hara is in the public domain. This version was retrieved from Poetry Foundation.

“Lisztiana” by Frank O’Hara is in the public domain. This version was retrieved from Poetry Foundation.

“The Man Without a Country” by Frank O’Hara is in the public domain. This version was retrieved from Poetry Foundation.

“Maurice Ravel” by Frank O’Hara is in the public domain. This version was retrieved from Poetry Foundation.

“Mayakovsky” by Frank O’Hara is in the public domain. This version was retrieved from Poetry Foundation.

“Meditations in an Emergency” by Frank O’Hara is in the public domain. This version was retrieved from Poetry Foundation.

“The Mike Goldberg Variations” by Frank O’Hara is in the public domain. This version was retrieved from Poetry Foundation.

“Noir Cacadou, or the Fatal Music of War” by Frank O’Hara is in the public domain. This version was retrieved from Poetry Foundation.

“A Note to Harold Fondren” by Frank O’Hara is in the public domain. This version was retrieved from Poetry Foundation.

“Now It Is Light…” by Frank O’Hara is in the public domain. This version was retrieved from Poetry Foundation.

“On a Mountain” by Frank O’Hara is in the public domain. This version was retrieved from Poetry Foundation.

“On Rachmaninoff’s Birthday” by Frank O’Hara is in the public domain. This version was retrieved from Poetry Foundation.

“On Seeing Larry Rivers’ “Washington Crossing the Delaware” at the Museum of Modern Art” by Frank O’Hara is in the public domain. This version was retrieved from Poetry Foundation.

“Personal Poem” by Frank O’Hara is in the public domain. This version was retrieved from Poetry Foundation.

“Places for Oscar Salvador” by Frank O’Hara is in the public domain. This version was retrieved from Poetry Foundation.

“Poem ‘À la recherche d’ Gertrude Stein’” by Frank O’Hara is in the public domain. This version was retrieved from Poetry Foundation.

“Poem (At night Chinamen jump)” by Frank O’Hara is in the public domain. This version was retrieved from Poetry Foundation.

“Poem (Green things are flowers…)” by Frank O’Hara is in the public domain. This version was retrieved from Poetry Foundation.

“Poem (Hate is only one…)” by Frank O’Hara is in the public domain. This version was retrieved from Poetry Foundation.

“Poem (I am not sure…)” by Frank O’Hara is in the public domain. This version was retrieved from Poetry Foundation.

“Poem in January” by Frank O’Hara is in the public domain. This version was retrieved from Poetry Foundation.

“Poem (Instant coffee with…)” by Frank O’Hara is in the public domain. This version was retrieved from Poetry Foundation.

“Poem [“Khrushchev is coming on the right day!”]” by Frank O’Hara is in the public domain. This version was retrieved from Poetry Foundation.

“Poem [“Lana Turner has collapsed!”] by Frank O’Hara is in the public domain. This version was retrieved from Poetry Foundation.

“Poem [“The eager note on my door said, ‘Call me,’”]” by Frank O’Hara is in the public domain. This version was retrieved from Poetry Foundation.

“Princess Elizabeth of Bohemia, as Perdita” by Frank O’Hara is in the public domain. This version was retrieved from Poetry Foundation.

“Radio” by Frank O’Hara is in the public domain. This version was retrieved from Poetry Foundation.

“Rhapsody” by Frank O’Hara is in the public domain. This version was retrieved from Poetry Foundation.

“Romanze, or the Music Students” by Frank O’Hara is in the public domain. This version was retrieved from Poetry Foundation.

“Room” by Frank O’Hara is in the public domain. This version was retrieved from Poetry Foundation.

“Round Objects” by Frank O’Hara is in the public domain. This version was retrieved from Poetry Foundation.

“Saint” by Frank O’Hara is in the public domain. This version was retrieved from Poetry Foundation.

“Serenade” by Frank O’Hara is in the public domain. This version was retrieved from Poetry Foundation.

“A Step Away from Them” by Frank O’Hara is in the public domain. This version was retrieved from Poetry Foundation.

“Sudden Snow” by Frank O’Hara is in the public domain. This version was retrieved from Poetry Foundation.

“To the Harbormaster” by Frank O’Hara is in the public domain. This version was retrieved from Poetry Foundation.

“To You” by Frank O’Hara is in the public domain. This version was retrieved from Poetry Foundation.

“The Tomb of Arnold Schoenberg” by Frank O’Hara is in the public domain. This version was retrieved from Poetry Foundation.

“Unicorn” by Frank O’Hara is in the public domain. This version was retrieved from Poetry Foundation.

“Variations on Pasternak’s “Mein Liebchen, Was Willst Du Noch Mehr?” by Frank O’Hara is in the public domain. This version was retrieved from Poetry Foundation.

“Walking” by Frank O’Hara is in the public domain. This version was retrieved from Poetry Foundation.

“Walking to Work” by Frank O’Hara is in the public domain. This version was retrieved from Poetry Foundation.

“A Wreath for John Wheelwright” by Frank O’Hara is in the public domain. This version was retrieved from Poetry Foundation.

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