Lunch Poems, Vol. 19 Book

As far as dead writers go, Frank O'Hara might be a contender for "worst death on record."

When Mr. O'Hara was 40 years old, just starting to be on the literary scene, he and a group of friends were on Fire Island, in New York, and their vehicle broke down. As they were standing on the side of the road, figuring out what to do, a young twenty-something drove by and hit O'Hara with his car.

Can't you just see this happening to you?

He had finally pulled his shit together, was just starting to make a little money, just starting to receive some acclaim for his writing, and then BAM! He was dead.

This life. I tell you. . .

Mr. O'Hara was many things, including an accomplished pianist and a lover of Boris Pasternak (really, who isn't?).

He also appeared to have a great sexual appetite, and it's too bad he was a chain-smoker, gay, and dead before I was born. . .

because he wrote lines like:

you are of me, that's what
and that's the meaning of fertility
hard and moist and moaning

Whoa.

And:

oh god it's wonderful
to get out of bed
and drink too much coffee
and smoke too many cigarettes
and love you so much

Oh, yeah, baby.

And, like the great Carl Sandburg, who made love to the city of Chicago in verse (if you don't know Sandburg's "Chicago," please, for the love of all that is holy, Google it), Mr. O'Hara made love to the city of New York in his "A Step Away From Them," probably the best poem in this collection:

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, 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 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.

Who knows what else he might have written, given the chance?

This is a fun, short collection and my affection for it grew after I went back and read all of the poems over again.

There's a learning curve here, and Mr. O'Hara was a very clever man.