A True Account Of Talking To The Sun At Fire Island


The Sun woke me this morning loud
and clear, saying "Hey! I've been
trying to wake you up for fifteen
minutes. Don't be so rude, you are
only the second poet I've ever chosen
to speak to personally
so why
aren't you more attentive? If I could
burn you through the window I would
to wake you up. I can't hang around
here all day."
"Sorry, Sun, I stayed
up late last night talking to Hal."

"When I woke up Mayakovsky he was
a lot more prompt" the Sun said
petulantly. "Most people are up
already waiting to see if I'm going
to put in an appearance."
I tried
to apologize "I missed you yesterday."
"That's better" he said. "I didn't
know you'd come out." "You may be wondering why I've come so close?"
"Yes" I said beginning to feel hot
and wondering if maybe he wasn't
burning me
"Frankly I wanted to tell you
I like your poetry. I see a lot
on my rounds and you're okay. You
not be the greatest thing on earth, but
you're different. Now, I've heard some
say you're crazy, they being excessively
calm themselves to my mind, and other
crazy poets think that you're a boring
reactionary. Not me.
Just keep on
like I do and pay no attention. You'll
find that some people always will
complain about the atmosphere,
either too hot
or too cold too bright or too dark, days
too short or too long.
If you don't appear
at all one day they think you're lazy
or dead. Just keep right on, I like it.

And don't worry about your lineage
poetic or natural. The Sun shines on
the jungle, you know, on the tundra
the sea, the ghetto. Wherever you
I knew it and saw you moving. I was
for you to get to work.

And now that you
are making your own days, so to
even if no one reads you but me
you won't be depressed. Not
everyone can look up, even at me. It
hurts their eyes."
"Oh Sun, I'm so grateful to you!"

"Thanks and remember I'm watching.
easier for me to speak to you out
here. I don't have to slide down
between buildings to get your ear.
I know you love Manhattan, but
you ought to look up more often.
always embrace things, people earth
sky stars, as I do, freely and with
the appropriate sense of space. That
is your inclination, known in the
and you should follow it to hell, if
necessary, which I doubt.
Maybe we'll
speak again in Africa, of which I too
am specially fond. Go back to sleep
Frank, and I may leave a tiny poem
in that brain of yours as my farewell."

"Sun, don't go!" I was awake
at last. "No, go I must, they're calling
"Who are they?"
Rising he said "Some
day you'll know. They're calling to you
too." Darkly he rose, and then I slept.

Frank O'Hara (1926 - 1966)

Francis Russell (Frank) O'Hara (June 27, 1926 - July 25, 1966) was a United States poet who, along with writers like John Ashbery and Kenneth Koch, was a key member of what was known as the New York School.

Frank O'Hara, the son of Russell Joseph O'Hara and Katherine Broderick, was born in Baltimore, grew up in Massachusetts and moved to New York City in 1951.

His work was immediate and were often quickly typed out. (One collection, Lunch Poems was so named because he typed them up on his lunch hour.) Low and high cultural references mingle easily in his work, with an often dreamlike lyricism. His most anthologized poems are "Why I Am Not a Painter" and "The Day Lady Died," the latter about Billie Holiday.

O'Hara was active in the art world, working as a reviewer for Art News and as a curator for the Museum of Modern Art. He was friends with a number of prominent artists like Willem de Kooning, Larry Rivers and Bill Berkson.

O'Hara died in a freak accident on Fire Island. He was run over by a dune buggy while sleeping on the beach.

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