Talking to the Sun

March 16, 2008

In Frank O’Hara’s poem ” A True Account of Talking to the Sun at Fire Island,” the sun was talking to O’Hara about the idea of “keeping going” even if people are going to complain

“Just keep on like I do and pay no attention. You’ll find that 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. “

i think in this poem O’Hara was trying to tell us to keep living our lives and doing what makes us happy even if it won’t necessarily please everyone around you. it really hit me with the idea that i’m trying to choose what college im going to be attending, and whats important about my decision is that i’m happy, and nobody else. so i will weight out the options, and try to figure out which one will result in me being the happiest.  but a lot of the tim its hard to try to only think about yourself, because everyone is constantly trying to please as many people as possible, its human nature.  but what o’hara is trying to say is to make an attempt to please you, even if not everyone is going to like it.

“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.”

even if it wont please everyone, as long as you make decisions that please yourself, you wont be depressed. thats whats important in making decisions in your life, making yourself happy.

suncartoon1.jpg

Why I am not a painter

March 16, 2008

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.

I really enjoyed reading works by Frank O’Hara, more than i have of any other poet in a while. his style of writing is so different, and so personal towards the reader. The title of this poem really grabbed me, because i know that i am in no way a painter or a poet, so doing these blogs sometimes is not something i can do very easily. It was interesting to see how both him and Mike Goldberg wrote/drew about something that wasn’t included in the final product, but became the title of it anyway. It’s things like that that made me think about the poems i’ve read, and paintings i’ve seen, and looked back and thought hm.. what did i just read? the meaning to them is found deeper than just looking at it. it’s like what we talked about in class, you have to look at how something means, not literally what it means.