It is almost three
I sit at the marble top
sorting poems, miserable
the little lamp glows feebly
I don’t glow at all

I have another cognac
and stare at two little paintings
of Jean-Paul’s, so great
I must do so much
or did they just happen

the breeze is cool
barely a sound filters up
through my confused eyes
I am lonely for myself
I can’t find a real poem

if it won’t happen to me
what shall I do

Analysis, meaning and summary of Frank O'Hara's poem At Joan’s

1 Comment

  1. Thomas ryan says:
    September 18, 2005 at 7:26 pm

    Another of these no talent , full of self pity poems, not as awful as the Carol Ann Duffy rubbish, she is a pain. Read Bobby Burns poetry. He HAD always something to say that made sense

    Reply

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