“The Day Lady Died” By: Frank O’Hara

I want to talk a little about the poem, “The Day Lady Died,” by Frank O’Hara. I just think this poem is so magnificent in its ability to bring us into an ordinary, seemingly unimportant and busy day in New York City, and then into a profound memory of the narrator’s mind.

“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”

/

O’Hara was part of the New York School poetry movement, which was one of the last great Avant-garde movements in American poetry. And as I read this piece for the first time in Postmodern American Poetry, a Norton Anthology (which has an awesome cover by the way!) I was struck by how insignificant I felt the first four stanzas were (Initially of course). It’s not that I felt the tone seemed arrogant necessarily, but I just couldn’t relate to all of the names, and titles of plays and magazines. It seemed to represent an intellectual lifestyle, but in no way represented me as an average American reader. I couldn’t make an emotional connection.

Until we get to the last stanza of course, this wonderful and profound set of four lines,

The narrator walks past a magazine stand and sees Billie Holiday’s face- Lady Day has died.

“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”

/

We are taken to this other time, a seemingly simple time, but juxtaposed with that raw emotional realization of death. I can see O’Hara there in a New York Jazz club, leaning against the bathroom- I feel the warmth of the scene, and of the drinks and of the people. But most importantly, Billie Holiday is there, alive, in this memory “while she whispered a song along the keyboard.”

“Everyone and I stopped breathing.”

That breathlessness; now who can’t relate, in some way, to the beauty and the warmth of this scene. It makes what occurred in the beginning four stanzas seem so unimportant (which also makes them perfectly written) because of this news- this news that makes the narrator remember-

a moment that is truly important.

I just think this poem is awesome, and I love Billie Holiday too!

(Sorry I had to add the “/” between stanzas, I couldn’t figure out how to get the spacing right.

Duke Ellington’s Single Petal of a Rose

So I just love the idea of writing to the sounds of music, and I remembered that a couple years back I wrote something for class that was created while listening Duke Ellington’s “Single Petal of a Rose.” It’s not the greatest thing I’ve ever written, but I just love the song, and the idea that music can create poetry, and poetry can create music.

So if you’re down, throw on this incredible song, and read this little poem!

Duke Ellington’s Single Petal of a Rose

she’s just a ghost

asleep in photographs

buried deep in dreams

and dresser drawers

and in the night we’ll pretend

darkness knows nothing

of morning

but please, don’t fall asleep

for when you rise

tomorrow will sigh

 

we’ve been forgotten

 

and you will be gone

and I, just a dream

“My Life Closed Twice Before Its Close” Emily Dickinson

Hey Literary World!

So first off, I just want to say how amazing the library is. Not only is it a place to escape from the world for a bit, and into the many wonderful landscapes of books, but I bought a giant anthology of poetry for 2 bucks at my local library! How can it get any better than that?

As I was flipping through the pages, I checked out the section on Emily Dickinson. I just think that she is amazing, and wrote poetry that was so thoughtful, and so many years ahead of its time. I think there’s a reason that she saw the world the way that she did, and she put those thoughts, that were often times hauntingly beautiful, into words.

So real quick, I want to talk about her poem, “My Life closed twice before its close.”

“My life closed twice before its close—

It yet remains to see

If Immortality unveil

A third event to me

So huge, so hopeless to conceive

As these that twice befell.

Parting is all we know of heaven,

And all we need of hell.”

It’s such a short, and powerful poem, and can take the reader’s interpretation in many directions. Even in the meaning behind that first line, “My life closed twice before it died.” What does it mean? I like to think that Dickinson is trying to convey that in her life, or in the life of the narrator, two other-worldly events occurred. Now this could mean many things, but I think the mystery of it all is what makes it more powerful… The reader is able to create their own abstract, wonderfully unique interpretation…

Maybe she saw the afterlife in a dream, or a vision… maybe it’s the death of another… but whatever it is, you can see how important these events were to the narrator, and how they even changed her perception of the world. If you had a taste of the afterlife, how could you ever see existence the same? Her life closed twice before its close.

And now she waits, and thinks of life, and of death, and of that final closing of this world, and into the next. It’s wonderful, and daunting, and beautiful. Many people see Dickinson’s writing as somber, but I think there is much more hopefulness and beauty hidden in the meaning of her words.

And I’ll leave this post with her final two lines of the poem,

“Parting is all we know of heaven,

And all we need of hell.”

I would love to hear any other thoughts on this poem!

Writing with Music

I love writing to the sounds of music… it can take my thoughts elsewhere, and change perceptions, which is what we as writers must do from time to time…

The band Real Estate is GREAT to listen to while writing!

I would love to hear some other great music or songs for writing!

Something Strange (Creative Writing)

This is what it feels like to be awake at 330, in my bed, and in the quiet, and in my head. I think, though I don’t enjoy thinking, but I must because if I stop contemplating my reason for being on this earth, then it doesn’t matter anymore; there is no meaning left. But I do believe that somehow, those of us who are left on this earth, and in this life, are here for a purpose, to do something, like the heroes in stories do. But you see, it’s not just fantasy; it is real, and far too unexplainable. I’m sorry, but science and technology seem to only distance me further from the types of answers that I am seeking. Let me tell you though, the moment you cease to believe that your life has meaning, and a greater purpose, is the moment it doesn’t.

So I am here, still, awake and wanting to watch television and enjoy the moments of life that I have, as if they will last forever, like this, and this life is the only one; maybe then I could strive for happiness, and comfort. But there is something that pulls me away from the slow movement of the moment, and into a fiery desire to think of life and of death and of family and of memory, and how I have changed and how I hope to find peace. But the question I have is this; does that moment of clarity and of joy come in this life, with these people, or in the next, with them?

I don’t know.

I want to call my brother and talk to him. To ask if he still remembers those jokes that we shared over a decade ago. It feels like yesterday to me, but maybe he doesn’t even remember. Maybe he’s mad that I haven’t tried to talk with him in so long, while I think that nothing has changed, because I hope that is hasn’t, and I simply see the world differently than he does.

My dad called me today and left a voicemail. I listened to it, and it sounded strange to observe the way he spoke, and I tried to find the underlying meaning in his tone, and not just in the words that he spoke, and I wish I could call him now, late in the night, just to talk, but I’m too afraid because of all the little things that I’m scared of, and can’t face, and maybe never will, and they will just grow and grow, and my family and friends won’t even know me anymore, but I love them so much and miss them so much, and now I am almost crying because I don’t even recognize the person that I’ve become, and I think I am dying, and I think I am sick, but I guess we’ve all always been dying, but I cant remember because I’m losing my mind, and I just want to be home-

So things can be like they were, when I knew that I was a good person, and I had hope still, and I know that I can find it, but I just hope that it isn’t too late.

“In A Station of the Metro” Ezra Pound

When I first read this poem in school, A few years ago, I didn’t understand. What makes this great writing, and what importance lies with in it’s few words?

“The apparition of these faces in the crowd;
Petals on a wet, black bough.”

Ezra, what’s the deal?? It sounds nice, and the imagery is pleasant, but I just could’t understand what significance there was, and why it was important for me, and for others, to read it. So I forgot about it for a couple of years, every once in a while I would find it again in a book, or online, but like most great poetry, it takes time to find the deepest, and most profound meaning. And it wasn’t until I was sitting in the Embarcadero station in San Francisco one afternoon, waiting to take the train home from my job that I hated at the time, and back home into the suburbs when I finally began to understand it’s meaning.

A train came, and within seconds, the entire platform, that was empty a moment before, was filled with people moving quickly, and rushed, and there was chaos, and though it was an every day occurrence, I had never noticed it before. And then a minute later, the platform was nearly empty again, ghostly almost… but you see, it was just another cycle of life, like the petals that appear on a wet black bough, and then are gone again. Now the meaning, in my opinion, is entirely up to the reader, but the image itself, of leaves appearing, and then disappearing again, and the faces that I have never known, and will never know coming, and then going….

they are both beautiful, in such strange, and spectacular ways!

A Moment (Creative Writing)

Sitting on the old wooden bench outside of the English building, I watch the leaves that sit, scattered around me; brown and yellow and burnt in the cold of this five o’clock hour. There aren’t many others around. But there’s music in my headphones, and I remember this song well; we would listen to it, late in the nights when the others, whom I called friends, would gather together, away from the cold and into our dormitory to drink, and to laugh, because we could think of no reason not to. When we were drunk and remember, we were only eighteen, we would flirt with the girls, but only for fun, and I can remember still, the songs that played quietly in the foreground of these memories. Isn’t it odd how music can carry such weight throughout the years?

And I can still see the smoke that would drift near the plastic cups, and at the time, there was no reason to call this beauty, but I think otherwise now. And we would play games that our parents knew nothing of, and when the night was finished, and my friends had fallen into bed, and into sleep, those of us left, and weary, would go into the cold of the night and walk throughout the university, laughing at our drunkenness, past this bench here, where I sit now, and maybe it’s only the music, but I can almost see us, smoking dollar cigars, and talking loudly about the girls we knew.

In the Backyard of My Childhood Home (Creative Writing)

And with only that, I am there again, in the back yard of my childhood home, in the suburbs, and in the summer heat, where I walk and I stare and I notice the trees, and how the insects hang in the rays of light. But there is no one around, and I am sure that they’ve gone, and I’m the only one left. But I remember how we lived here once, when we were younger still, and would linger in the yard, like the world was meant to remain for eternity. But I’m the only one left, and before I can care to understand why I’m here, at home, in some time I recognize, but barely, I see us; my brothers and my sister and me, and we are standing, and we are younger, and we are laughing about the things we would laugh about always, and I remember, and I’m there. But still I am elsewhere. And just as Dominic looks at me, and smiles, as if to tell me something, so I may understand, they are gone, and I am alone, in some timeless space, in the yard and in the sun. And I move among the flowers and the grass, and see the baseball gloves laying in the dirt, and the air scatter above the barbeque pit.

They were here, and I have known this time before. And though I would wait for them always to return, so I could live with the family I loved, and knew, there’s a pulling, to move, and quickly. And then the sun sets in an instant, and before I can care to gaze towards the orange hues of the moonlight, I am elsewhere, in a field I think is real, but can’t tell. And we are there; as are my parents and my grandparents, and those friends we had in the suburbs. And I watch us sway in the half-light, in the subliminal spaces I have known, but never acknowledged. And there is music playing, and the smells are not of things, but of places, and though the seconds feel as if they are years, in an instant, it is gone, as are they. But still, I remain.

“It’s A War” Blackbird Blackbird

You know when you hear a song, and it completely overtakes you for a moment. Like it somehow, can change your perception of the world?? This song to me, is so poetic in its nature! Perfect daydreaming music…

“The Forms of Love” George Oppen

Ok, so I think this poem, “The Forms Of Love” by George Oppen is so oddly beautiful because, in part, of its simplicity. Oppen was part of a literary movement known as the Objectivists, who were influenced greatly by the Minimalists, and were known to capture the world in the it’s most clear, precise, and true form. The Objectivists, I believe, found that the greatest emotion comes in the capturing of a moment itself, without the excessive use of adjectives to portray a scene. Instead, it’s gaze into this moment, as it truly was experienced, and find the greatest forms of beauty. Because it is real.

Oppen is describing a moment in time. And I can picture this memory coming from the mind of Oppen, as he remembered in his life, this true event, of love, and of being, many years before. I can see the picture completely, of two lovers in the darkness, near their car, walking in the grass and the fog and the night. It’s incredible how much complexity lies within the seemingly simple.

It’s beautiful, because it is real.