Saturday of Winter Carnival, sigh

I’m a little bit drunk, in a conference room in Fairchild, with dozens and dozens of my poems laid out on the table, drawing diagrams and writing epigrams on a whiteboard, moving in and out of landscapes, frames of mind.

Hilary is writing a chapter for her art history thesis on early modern portraiture, Andrew is working on his earth sciences thesis about core samples and climate change… I am working on my poems. Hah.

Anyway, just need to record this moment in time when this I cannot think of another poem I have ever loved more than “To the Harbormaster.”


by Frank O’Hara

I wanted to be sure to reach you;
though my ship was on the way it got caught
in some moorings. I am always tying up
and then deciding to depart. In storms and
at sunset, with the metallic coils of the tide
around my fathomless arms, I am unable
to understand the forms of my vanity
or I am hard alee with my Polish rudder
in my hand and the sun sinking. To
you I offer my hull and the tattered cordage
of my will. The terrible channels where
the wind drives me against the brown lips
of the reeds are not all behind me. Yet
I trust the sanity of my vessel; and
if it sinks, it may well be in answer
to the reasoning of the eternal voices,
the waves which have kept me from reaching you.