On Rachmaninoff’s Birthday (by Frank O’Hara)
Quick! a last poem before I go
off my rocker. Oh Rachmaninoff!
Onset, Massachusetts. Is it the fig-newton
playing the horn? Thundering windows
of hell, will your tubes ever break
into powder? Oh my palace of oranges,
junk shop, staples, umber, basalt;
I’m a child again when I was really
miserable, a grope pizzicato. My pocket
of rhinestone, yoyo, carpenter’s pencil,
amethyst, hypo, campaign button,
is the room full of smoke? Shit
on the soup, let it burn. So it’s back.
You’ll never be mentally sober.
Quel sonnet!!!
Jeffrey Grunthaner (December 16, 2008 at 4:38 pm)I’m sorry Jeffrey, but I have to say… I hate this poem so very much.The reason I posted it on here is because I ultimately came to the realization that I didn’t like Frank O’Hara. Tried and tried, but no go.Perhaps there’s a ton of historical/musical context that I need, before I can fully understand or appreciate this poem. But if that’s the case, that’s just one more reason I dislike the poem.I’m a huge fan of sonnets, but I’m just not sure what the hell is going on here. This isn’t a sonnet to me, this is just fourteen lines.
avoision (December 17, 2008 at 10:09 am)If you really don’t like O’Hara, what can I say? But I’m pretty sure the poem IS a sonnet because there’s a conclusion wrapping up the poem at the end: “Shit on the soup, let it burn. So it’s back. You’ll never be mentally sober.” The octave involves a series of observations–mostly exclamations–wherein dream, present reality, and memory all mysteriously mingle, as though partaking in some momentous fugue. And the poem then ends with the acknowledgement that this sort of confusion will go on indefinitely, as long as life endures, thus making it, to my mind, “un sonnet” (though not of the classical variety).What’s most to be loved about this poem is, I think, its tone, and the way it fosters the invasion of a kind of surreality into the realm of the every day: “Is it the fig Newton playing the horn? Thundering windows of hell, will your tubes ever break into powder?” Just imagine if these lines were merely statements; the drunken, on tiptoe air of the poem would be entirely lost!You might still dislike the poem, but at least I did TRY to make it enjoyable! If you want, read “Why I’m not a painter?” along with the poem “Oranges: 12 pastorals” for what I think is a good introduction to Frank O’Hara’s “method” (to call it that) as a writer. If, afterwards, you still don’t appreciate him, then perhaps it’s really just a matter of taste.Personally, I had to grow into Frank O’Hara’s poetry, and still am. Being that it’s a new to me, though, it’s also newly exciting. Hence, my defense of this poem: a poem which, while I have memorized it, should probably not be considered one of O‚ÄôHara‚Äôs best.Cheers!
Jeffrey Grunthaner (December 17, 2008 at 3:03 pm)That’s the wrong poem.Here’s Frank O’Hara’s “On Rachmaninoff’s Birthday”:Blue windows, blue rooftopsand the blue light of the rain,these contiguous phrases of Rachmaninoffpouring into my enormous earsand the tears falling into my blindnessfor without him i do not play,especially in the afternoonon the day of his birthday. Goodfortune, you would have beenmy teacher and I your only pupiland I would always play again.Secrets of Liszt and Scriabinwhispered to me over the keyboardon unsunny afternoons! and growingstill in my stormy heart.Only my eyes would be blue as I playedand you rapped my knuckles,dearest father of all the Russias,placing my fingerstenderly upon your cold, tired eyes.
Anonymous (March 31, 2011 at 9:57 pm)There are multiple poems by Frank O’Hara with the same title.
Patricia (July 8, 2020 at 12:25 pm)I never realized this before, but apparently there seem to be more than one poem by O’Hara with this title. Maybe a total of seven?It’s been years later, and I still dislike the one I posted. I’m a bit better with this one (above), but still not a fan of his style.
avoision (April 1, 2011 at 5:31 pm)