ฟังการกำหนดของวันนี้

I am just four days away from not only a Mozart-free home for at least a blessed month, I'm four days away from not hearing Debussy's "Golliwog," with luck, ever fucking again, but with Planet's practicing before her recital this Sunday? GAH!

Oh, I've been thinking about the power of poetry to affect political change, and let me say this: I've been posting poetry regularly since the beginning of this shuuty bleeg and posting a poem on each BWOCK! post for as long as I can remember, and I betcha NONE! of my regulars ping in each day to read the poem, though I flatter myself the majority at least start most of them and see how it goes.

Have one:

A TRUE ACCOUNT OF TALKING TO THE SUN AT FIRE ISLAND

Frank O'Hara

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   

wondering if maybe he wasn’t burning me   

anyway.

            “Frankly I wanted to tell you   

I like your poetry. I see a lot

on my rounds and you’re okay. You may   

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 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 were

I knew it and saw you moving. I was waiting   

for you to get to work.

                                    And now that you

are making your own days, so to speak,

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. It’s

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.

                                                 And

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 heavens
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 now   

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   

me.”

       “Who are they?”

                               Rising he said “Some

day you’ll know. They’re calling to you

too.” Darkly he rose, and then I slept.

Have another song: