Now I am quietly waiting for
the catastrophe of my personality
to seem beautiful again,
and interesting, and modern.
The country 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.
Sleeping On The Wing
Curiosity, the passionate hand of desire. Dead,
or sleeping? Is there speed enough? And, swooping,
you relinquish all that you have made your own,
the kingdom of your self sailing, for you must awake
and breathe your warmth in this beloved image
whether it’s dead or merely disappearing,
as space is disappearing and your singularity.
When I saw O’Hara’s name next to Allen Ginsberg’s, I have to admit, I wasn’t exactly thrilled. Nonetheless, I enjoyed the former’s poetry more than Mr. Ginsberg’s and would probably try another one of his books. Within his ode to New York City, there were some gems I liked, a few lines I identified with. His love for the city, the idea of loving a place so much, however unconnected it is with me, is heartwarming somehow.
* Credit: Book cover via Goodreads