Present Present

December 28, 1964 The stranded gulch            below Grand Central the gentle purr of cab tires in snow and hidden stars           tears on the windshield torn inexorably away in whining motion and the dark thoughts which surround neon in Union Square I see you for a moment red green yellow searchlights cutting through falling flakes, head bent to the wind wet and frowning, melancholy, trying I know perfectly well where you walk to and that we’ll meet in even greater darkness later and will be warm              so our cross of paths will not be just muddy footprints in the morning          not like celestial bodies’ yearly passes, nothing pushes us away from each other          even now I can lean forward across the square and see your surprised grey look become greener as I wipe the city’s moisture from your face       and you shake the snow off onto my shoulder, light as a breath where the quarrels and vices of estranged companions weighed so bitterly and accidentally          before, I saw you on the floor of my life walking slowly that time in summer rain stranger and nearer     to become a way of feeling that is not painful casual or diffuse and seems to explore some peculiar insight of the heavens for its favorite bodies in the mixed-up air This article is part of The Nation’s 150th Anniversary Special Issue. Download a free PDF of the issue, with articles by James Baldwin, Barbara Ehrenreich, Toni Morrison, Howard Zinn and many more, here. This poem by Frank O’Hara (1926–1966) was published the same year his collection Lunch Poems brought him to fame.  

Mar 23, 2015 / Books & the Arts / Frank O’Hara