1My heart’s aflutter!I am standing in the bath tubcrying. Mother, motherwho am I? If hewill just come back onceand kiss me on the facehis coarse hair brushmy temple, it’s throbbing!then I can put on my clothesI guess, and walk the streets.2I love you. I love you,but I’m turning to my versesand my heart is closinglike a fist.Words! besick as I am sick, swoon,roll back your eyes, a pool,and I’ll stare downat my wounded beautywhich at best is only a talentfor poetry.Cannot please, cannot charm or winwhat a poet!and the clear water is thickwith bloody blows on its head.I embraced a cloud,but when I soaredit rained.3That’s funny! there’s blood on my chestoh yes, I’ve been carrying brickswhat a funny place to rupture!and now it is raining on the ailanthusas I step out onto the window ledgethe tracks below me are smoky andglistening with a passion for runningI leap into the leaves, green like the sea4Now I am quietly waiting forthe catastrophe of my personalityto seem beautiful again,and interesting, and modern.The country is grey andbrown and white in trees,snows and skies of laughteralways diminishing, less funnynot just darker, not just grey.It may be the coldest day ofthe year, what does he think ofthat? I mean, what do I? And if I do,perhaps I am myself again.
- Frank O’Hara, Mayakovsky, Meditations in  an Emergency (1956)

1
My heart’s aflutter!
I am standing in the bath tub
crying. Mother, mother
who am I? If he
will just come back once
and kiss me on the face
his coarse hair brush
my temple, it’s throbbing!

then I can put on my clothes
I guess, and walk the streets.

2
I love you. I love you,
but I’m turning to my verses
and my heart is closing
like a fist.

Words! be
sick as I am sick, swoon,
roll back your eyes, a pool,

and I’ll stare down
at my wounded beauty
which at best is only a talent
for poetry.

Cannot please, cannot charm or win
what a poet!
and the clear water is thick

with bloody blows on its head.
I embraced a cloud,
but when I soared
it rained.

3
That’s funny! there’s blood on my chest
oh yes, I’ve been carrying bricks
what a funny place to rupture!
and now it is raining on the ailanthus
as I step out onto the window ledge
the tracks below me are smoky and
glistening with a passion for running
I leap into the leaves, green like the sea

4
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.

- Frank O’Hara, Mayakovsky, Meditations in an Emergency (1956)

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