World Poetry Day, Part 2: The Day Lady Died by Frank O'Hara/Painting of O'Hara by Alice Neel

It is 12:20 in New York a Friday 

three days after Bastille day, yes 

it is 1959 and I go get a shoeshine 

because I will get off the 4:19 in Easthampton   

at 7:15 and then go straight to dinner 

and I don’t know the people who will feed me 

I walk up the muggy street beginning to sun   

and have a hamburger and a malted and buy 

an ugly NEW WORLD WRITING to see what the poets   

in Ghana are doing these days 

                                                        I go on to the bank 

and Miss Stillwagon (first name Linda I once heard)   

doesn’t even look up my balance for once in her life   

and in the GOLDEN GRIFFIN I get a little Verlaine   

for Patsy with drawings by Bonnard although I do   

think of Hesiod, trans. Richmond Lattimore or   

Brendan Behan’s new play or Le Balcon or Les Nègres 

of Genet, but I don’t, I stick with Verlaine 

after practically going to sleep with quandariness 

and for Mike I just stroll into the PARK LANE 

Liquor Store and ask for a bottle of Strega and   

then I go back where I came from to 6th Avenue   

and the tobacconist in the Ziegfeld Theatre and   

casually ask for a carton of Gauloises and a carton 

of Picayunes, and a NEW YORK POST with her face on it 

and I am sweating a lot by now and thinking of 

leaning on the john door in the 5 SPOT 

while she whispered a song along the keyboard 

to Mal Waldron and everyone and I stopped breathing

---o0o---

Frank O’Hara, “The Day Lady Died” from Lunch Poems. Copyright © 1964 by Frank O’Hara. City Lights Books. 

Alice Neel, portrait of Frank O'Hara

Happy World Poetry Day! "Ozymandias" by Percy Shelley Reading by Bryan Cranston)

Ozymandias by Percy Shelley

I met a traveler from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed:

And on the pedestal these words appear:
'My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!'
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.

                    ---o0o---