Friday, July 24, 2009

Why I am not a poet.

Thinking recently of a tremendous poem by Frank O'Hara called Why I Am Not a Painter. I like its movement and rhythm, I like the voice, the personality, and frankly, I like one artist reflecting on his own and the process of another. It makes me smile, this poem. Thinking about it because in the recent pauses in my life (of which there have been few), I've been jotting haiku into my journal. Not anything gorgeous or transformative, just little bits about what I'm thinking about: work, relationship, family, sensations. You know the usual.

Glances calculate:
blue eyes, brown eyes. Whose is she?
"Are you related?"

"Why is your skin brown?"
"Because I was born that way."
Puzzled frown. She thinks.

Blue light pours over
our bodies, bare, beneath the
wide open window.

Trying on futures
as if each is a new dress.
Could I just go nude?

It takes a hyphen
just to explain the depth of
my citizenship?

Stabbing behind my
right eye indicates struggle:
I'll phone her next week.

I know, I know, stick to prose...


PrincessMax said...

Nah! I like it. Keep going.

Nyactorgirl said...

I agree with PrincessMax...keep em comin'!!!