Oda i Majakovski
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24 THE AMERICAN POETRY REVIEW Ode An idea of justice may be precious, one vital gregarious amusement . . . What are you amused by? a crisis like a cow being out on the payroll with the concomitant investigations and divinings? Have you sweptthe dung from the tracks? Am I a door? If millions criticize you for drinking too much, the cow is going to look like Venus and you’ll make a pass yes, you and your friend from High School, the basketball player whose black eyes exceed yours as he picks up the ball with one hand. But doesn’t he doubt, too? T o be equal? it’ s the worst! Are we just muddy instants? No, you must treat me like a fox; or, being a child, kill the oriole thoughit reminds you of me. Thus you become the author of all being. Women unite against you. It’ s as if I were carrying a horse on my shoulders and I couldn’t see his face. His iron legs hang down to the earth on either side of me like the arch of triumph in Washington Square. I would like to beat someone with him but I can’t get him off myshoulders, he’ s like evening. Evening! your breeze is an obstacle, it changes me, I am being arrested, and if I mock you into a face and, disgusted, throw down the horse—ah! there’ s his face! and I am, sobbing, walking onmy heart. I want to take your hands off my hips and put them on a stat ue’s hips; then I can thoughtfully regard the justice of your feelings for me, and, changing, regard my own love for you as beautiful. I’ d never cheat you and say “It’s inevitable!” It ’s just barely natural. But we do course together like t wo battleships maneuvering away from the fleet. I am moved by the multit udes of your intelligence and sometimes, returning, I become the sea— inlove with your speed, your heaviness and breath. Frank O’Hara, “Ode” from Meditations in an Emergenc y. Copyright © 1957 by Frank O’Hara. Reprinted with the permission of Grove/Atlantic, Inc. Mayakovsky 1 My heart’ s aflutter! I am standing in the bath tub crying. Mother, mother who am I? If he will just come back once and kiss me on the face his coarse hair brush my temple, it’ s throbbing! then I can put on myclothes I guess, and walk the streets. 2 I love you. Ilove you, but I’ m turning to my verses and my heart is closing like a fist. Words! be sick as I am sick, swoon, roll back your eyes, a pool, and I’ll stare down at my wounded beaut y which at bestis only a talent for poetry . Cannot please, cannot charm or win what a poet! and the clear water isthick with bloody blows on its head. I embrace a cloud, but when I soared it rained. 3 That’ s funny! there’ s blood on my chest oh yes, I’ve been carrying bricks what a funny place to rupture! and now it is raining on the ailanthus as I step out onto the window ledge the tracks below me are smoky and glistening with a passion for running I leap into the leaves, green like the sea 4 Now I am quietly waiting for the catastrophe of my personalit y to seem beautiful again, and interesting, and modern. The countr y is grey and brown and white in trees, snows and skies of laughter always diminishing, less funny not just darker, not just grey. It may be the coldest day of the year, what does he think of that? I mean, what do I? And if I do, perhaps I am myself again. Frank O’Hara, “Mayakovsky” from Meditations in an Emergenc y. Copyright © 1957 by Frank O’Hara. Reprinted by permission of Grove/Atlantic, Inc. To the Harbormaster I wanted to be sure to reach you; though myship was on theway it got caught in some moorings. I am always tying up and then deciding to depart. In storms and at sunset, with the metallic coils of the tide around my fathomless arms, I am unable to understand the forms of my vanit y or I am hard alee with my Polish rudder in my hand and the sun sinking. To you I offer my hull and the tattered cordage of my will.The terrible channels where the wind drives me against the brown lips of the reeds are not all behind me. Y et I trust the sanity of my vessel; and if it sinks, it may well be in answer to the reasoning of the eternal voices, the waves which have keptme from reaching you. Frank O’Hara, “T o the Harbormaster” from Meditations in an Emergenc y. Copyright © 1957 by Frank O’Hara. Reprinted with the permission of Grove/Atlantic, Inc.
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Poems "Ode" an "Mayakovsky" by Frank O'Hara
Transcript of Oda i Majakovski
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24 THE AMERICAN POETRY REVIEW
Ode
An idea of justice may be precious, one vital gregarious amusement . . .
What are you amused by? a crisislike a cow being out on the payrollwith the concomitant investigations and divinings?Have you swept the dung from the tracks?
Am I a door?If millions criticize you for drinking too much,the cow is going to look like Venus and youll make a passyes, you and your friend from High School,the basketball player whose black eyes exceed yoursas he picks up the ball with one hand. But doesnt he doubt, too?
To be equal? its the worst! Are we just muddy instants?No, you must treat me like a fox; or, being a child,kill the oriole though it reminds you of me.Thus you become the author of all being. Women unite against you.
Its as if I were carrying a horse on my shouldersand I couldnt see his face. His iron legshang down to the earth on either side of melike the arch of triumph in Washington Square.I would like to beat someone with himbut I cant get him off my shoulders, hes like evening.Evening! your breeze is an obstacle,
it changes me, I am being arrested, and if I mock you into a faceand, disgusted, throw down the horseah! theres his face!and I am, sobbing, walking on my heart.
I want to take your hands off my hips and put them on a statues hips;then I can thoughtfully regard the justice of your feelingsfor me, and, changing, regard my own love for youas beautiful. Id never cheat you and say Its inevitable!
Its just barely natural. But we do course togetherlike two battleships maneuvering away from the eet.I am moved by the multitudes of your intelligenceand sometimes, returning, I become the seain love with your speed, your heaviness and breath.
Frank OHara, Ode from Meditations in an Emergency. Copyright 1957 byFrank OHara. Reprinted with the permission of Grove/Atlantic, Inc.
Mayakovsky1
My hearts autter!I am standing in the bath tubcrying. Mother, motherwho am I? If hewill just come back onceand kiss me on the facehis coarse hair brushmy temple, its throbbing!
then I can put on my clothesI guess, and walk the streets.
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I love you. I love you,but Im turning to my verses
and my heart is closinglike a st.
Words! besick as I am sick, swoon,roll back your eyes, a pool,
and Ill stare downat my wounded beautywhich at best is only a talentfor poetry.
Cannot please, cannot charm or winwhat a poet!and the clear water is thick
with bloody blows on its head.I embrace a cloud,but when I soaredit rained.
3
Thats funny! theres blood on my chestoh yes, Ive been carrying brickswhat a funny place to rupture!and now it is raining on the ailanthusas I step out onto the window ledgethe tracks below me are smoky andglistening with a passion for runningI leap into the leaves, green like the sea
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Now I am quietly waiting forthe catastrophe of my personalityto seem beautiful again,and interesting, and modern.
The country is grey andbrown and white in trees,snows and skies of laughteralways diminishing, less funnynot just darker, not just grey.
It may be the coldest day ofthe year, what does he think ofthat? I mean, what do I? And if I do,perhaps I am myself again.
Frank OHara, Mayakovsky from Meditations in an Emergency. Copyright 1957 by Frank OHara. Reprinted by permission of Grove/Atlantic, Inc.
To the Harbormaster
I wanted to be sure to reach you;though my ship was on the way it got caughtin some moorings. I am always tying upand then deciding to depart. In storms andat sunset, with the metallic coils of the tidearound my fathomless arms, I am unableto understand the forms of my vanityor I am hard alee with my Polish rudderin my hand and the sun sinking. Toyou I offer my hull and the tattered cordageof my will. The terrible channels wherethe wind drives me against the brown lipsof the reeds are not all behind me. YetI trust the sanity of my vessel; andif it sinks, it may well be in answerto the reasoning of the eternal voices,the waves which have kept me from reaching you.
Frank OHara, To the Harbormaster from Meditations in an Emergency. Copyright 1957 by Frank OHara. Reprinted with the permission of Grove/Atlantic, Inc.
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