the pleasures of rolling in a bog some call the Milky Way

2 POEMS FROM THE OHARA MONOGATARI 

1 

My love is coming in a glass 
the blood of the Bourbons 

saxophone or cornet 
qu'importe ou? 

green of glass flowers dans le Kentucky 

and always the same handkerchief 
at the same nose of damask 

turning up my extravagant collar 
tossing my scarf about my neck 

the Baudelaire of Kyoto's never-ending pureness 
is he cracked in the head? 


2 

After a long trip to a shrine 
in wooden clogs so hard on the muscles 
the tea is bitter and the breasts are hard 
so much terrace for one evening 

there is no longer no ocean 
I don't see the ocean under my stilts 
as I poke along 

hands on ankles feet on wrists 
naked in thought 
like a whip made from sheerest stockings 

the radio is on the cigarette is puffed upon 
by the pleasures of rolling in a bog 
some call the Milky Way 
in far-fetched Occidental lands above the trees 
where dwell the amusing skulls 

1954 

From Lunch Poems by Frank O’Hara. 

Copyright © 1964 by Frank O’Hara.