Having a Coke With You

I've always been a fan of words, a sucker for the right combination of sense and sensibility

(hihihi yes, sounds like Jane Austin's book -- even if i havent actually read the book -- those were the right words.)

So I was super amused to hear a poem that had COKE in its title,

and I was even more amused when I read it, not because I knew all of the places in the poem 
(i wish i did though but I dont think that was O'Hara's point with this poem),

but because in the end, i like the idea that the person recognizes that there is beauty everywhere 
-- that there is and always will be something better but despite that, 
they still choose to be with you instead. having a coke. 

im corny and thats my understanding of it, so sue me, read the poem nalang! :)

Having a Coke With You

is even more fun than going to San Sebastian, Irún, Hendaye, Biarritz, Bayonn
or being sick to my stomach on the Travesera de Gracia in Barcelona
partly because in your orange shirt you look like a better happier St. Sebastian
partly because of my love for you, partly because of your love for yoghurt
partly because of the fluorescent orange tulips around the birches
partly because of the secrecy our smiles take on before people and statuary
it is hard to believe when I'm with you that there can be anything as still 
as solemn as unpleasantly definitive as statuary when right in front of it 
in the warm New York 4 o'clock light we are drifting back and forth 
between each other like a tree breathing through its spectacles 

and the portrait show seems to have no faces in it at all, just paint 
you suddenly wonder why in the world anyone ever did them

I look at you and I would rather look at you than all the portraits in the world
except possibly for the Polish Rider occasionally and anyway it's in the Frick 
which thank heavens you haven't gone to yet so we can go together the first time 
and the fact that you move so beautifully more or less takes care of Futurism 
just as at home I never think of the Nude Descending a Staircase or 
at a rehearsal a single drawing of Leonardo or Michelangelo that used to wow me 
and what good does all the research of the Impressionists do them 
when they never got the right person to stand near the tree when the sun sank 
or for that matter Marino Marini when he didn't pick the rider as carefully as the horse

it seems they were all cheated of some marvelous experience

which is not going to go wasted on me which is why I am telling you about it

—Frank O'Hara

Here's Frank O'Hara reading his work shortly before he died.
(Thank you mimi for the link and for remembering)

And here's where I first heard the poem, a chick flick (what'd you think?! ;p),

but the way the poem was read is just love. <3

(Not a huge fan of the movie and of the girl though, disclaimer lang. hihi)

XOXO,

Joanie

The Invitation

In relation to my previous blogpost. Here's someone whose words actually make sense.
One of my favorite poems that I recently fell in love with again.


The Invitation 
by Opriah Mountain Dreamer

It doesn't interest me what you do for a living.
I want to know what you ache for,
and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart's longing.

It doesn't interest me how old you are. 

I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love, 
for your dream, for the adventure of being alive.

It doesn't interest me what planets are squaring your moon.
I want to know if you have touched the center of your own sorrow,
if you have been opened by life's betrayals
or have become shriveled and closed from fear of further pain!

I want to know if you can sit with pain, mine or your own,
without moving to hide it or fade it, or fix it.

I want to know if you can be with joy, mine or your own,
if you can dance with wildness and let the ecstasy fill you
to the tips of your fingers and toes without cautioning us
to be careful, to be realistic, to remember the limitations of being human.

It doesn't interest me if the story you are telling me is true.
I want to know if you can disappoint another to be true to yourself;
if you can bear the accusation of betrayal and not betray your own soul;
if you can be faithless and therefore trustworthy.

I want to know if you can see beauty even when it's not pretty, every day,
and if you can source your own life from its presence.

I want to know if you can live with failure, yours and mine,
and still stand on the edge of the lake and shout to the silver of the full moon, “Yes!”

It doesn't interest me to know where you live or how much money you have.

I want to know if you can get up, after the night of grief and despair, 
weary and bruised to the bone, and do what needs to be done to feed the children.

It doesn't interest me who you know or how you came to be here.
I want to know if you will stand in the center of the fire with me and not shrink back.

It doesn't interest me where or what or with whom you have studied.
I want to know what sustains you, from the inside, when all else falls away.

I want to know if you can be alone with yourself 
and if you truly like the company you keep in the empty moments.