southern california

EMAIL / BIO / MOOD

frank o’hara

frank o’hara

things i say often at work: “didactic material”, “flagship location”, “closed for renovation”

how are you feeling in ancient september / i feel like a truck on a wet highway - frank o’hara
now how do you feel in the fall? 

it feels like the sun is going down forever, we’re stepping into daylight savings. panic at dark, not enough sun in my eyes anymore. my skin fading.

it feels like that bend in the road at hume lake, when all our friends left for the summer and now there are only 100 of us, tucked into the mountain in our cabins now. the asphalt glowing gold in wet sunlight now. my boyfriend going back to school in los angeles and waiting for his letters.

the way the field felt in first grade at 4 o clock, lonely, wondering where mom was 
waiting for a glimpse of her gold volvo. light glinting of the body as she turned into campus, one sharp wink.

it feels like the way i feel when i watch ballet, wistful. teary for everything, one constant sigh, one huge sigh. my whole body, a sigh. 

how are you feeling in ancient september / i feel like a truck on a wet highway - frank o’hara

now how do you feel in the fall? 
it feels like the sun is going down forever, we’re stepping into daylight savings. panic at dark, not enough sun in my eyes anymore. my skin fading.
it feels like that bend in the road at hume lake, when all our friends left for the summer and now there are only 100 of us, tucked into the mountain in our cabins now. the asphalt glowing gold in wet sunlight now. my boyfriend going back to school in los angeles and waiting for his letters.
the way the field felt in first grade at 4 o clock, lonely, wondering where mom was 
waiting for a glimpse of her gold volvo. light glinting of the body as she turned into campus, one sharp wink.
it feels like the way i feel when i watch ballet, wistful. teary for everything, one constant sigh, one huge sigh. my whole body, a sigh. 
Joan Mitchell, Helen Frankenthaler, Grace Hartigan

Joan Mitchell, Helen Frankenthaler, Grace Hartigan

"In actuality, it grew out of a love affair (not with Jones; probably with Vincent Warren) and consisted of the smitten O’Hara’s realization that love poems might not differ in intention, nor in effect, from phone calls: "I realized that if I wanted to I could use the telephone instead of writing the poem, and so Personism was born." Poems, in other words, are only one kind of intimate communication, and ought to be at least as impressive, at least as personal perhaps, as the others (even if their forms differ). Every poem is or could be a "Personal Poem" (an O’Hara title), with an "I" and a "you," and a hope, not that Heaven will favor the poet, but that "one person out of the 8,000,000 is / thinking of me." from "Okay I’ll Call you / Yes Call Me" by Stephen Burt

MANTRA

Warsan Shire - “For Women Who Are Difficult To Love”

you are a horse running alone
and he tries to tame you
compares you to an impossible highway
to a burning house
says you are blinding him
that he could never leave you
forget you
want anything but you
you dizzy him, you are unbearable
every woman before or after you
is doused in your name
you fill his mouth
his teeth ache with memory of taste
his body just a long shadow seeking yours
but you are always too intense
frightening in the way you want him
unashamed and sacrificial
he tells you that no man can live up to the one who
lives in your head
and you tried to change didn’t you?
closed your mouth more
tried to be softer
prettier
less volatile, less awake
but even when sleeping you could feel
him traveling away from you in his dreams
so what did you want to do, love
split his head open?
you can’t make homes out of human beings
someone should have already told you that
and if he wants to leave
then let him leave
you are terrifying
and strange and beautiful
something not everyone knows how to love.