The Vase of Perfume
Chang Wu-chien, translated by Gertrude L. Joerissen
If I open this flask of jade, in which is enclosed a
wondrous perfume, its mysterious fragrance will
overpower thee.
When I caress thee, O my vase of amber, do not
breathe forth thy amorous thoughts.
Image: Jade snuff bottle, 18th century, Museum of Fine Arts, Boston, 95.817.
Frank O’Hara’s poetry collection “Lunch Poems,” first published in 1964, is celebrating its 50-year anniversary.
I own a small used paperback copy of “Lunch Poems” that I bought two years ago. I had heard that O’Hara wrote many of these poems during his lunch breaks while working at the Museum of Modern Art, so I thought I might occasionally read a poem or two during my own museum-job lunch breaks.
Here’s the first stanza of “A Step Away from Them,” written in 1956. It’s a vintage slice of New York in summertime.
It’s my lunch hour, so I go
for a walk amongst the hum-colored
cabs. First, down the sidewalk
where laborers feed their dirty
glistening torsos sandwiches
and Coca-Cola, with yellow helmets
on. They protect them from falling
bricks, I guess. Then onto the
avenue where skirts are flipping
above heels and blow up over
grates. The sun is hot, but the
cabs stir up the air. I look
at bargains in wristwatches. There
are cats playing in sawdust.
To read the entire poem, click here.
To read a short New York Times article about the anniversary of “Lunch Poems,” click here.
Image: Leonard Freed, Wall Street, 1956.
April is National Poetry Month. I almost forgot; but, with just a few days to spare, here’s a poem by Emily Dickinson that has long been one of my favorites.
#443
I tie my Hat—I crease my Shawl—
Life’s little duties do—precisely—
As the very least
Were infinite—to me—
I put new Blossoms in the Glass—
And throw the old—away—
I push a petal from my gown
That anchored there—I weigh
The time ’twill be till six o’clock
I have so much to do—
And yet—Existence—some way back—
Stopped—struck—my ticking—through—
We cannot put Ourself away
As a completed Man
Or Woman—When the Errand’s done
We came to Flesh—upon—
There may be—Miles on Miles of Nought—
Of Action—sicker far—
To simulate—is stinging work—
To cover what we are
From Science—and from Surgery—
Too Telescopic Eyes
To bear on us unshaded—
For their—sake—not for Ours—
‘Twould start them—
We—could tremble—
But since we got a Bomb—
And held it in our Bosom—
Nay—Hold it—it is calm—
Therefore—we do life’s labor—
Though life’s Reward—be done—
With scrupulous exactness—
To hold our Senses—on—
Image: Mary Cassatt, Reflection (print from a canceled plate), collections of the New York Public Library.
On the sidewalk of East 41st Street between Park Avenue and Fifth Avenue, otherwise known as “Library Way.”
The rose fades
and is renewed again
by its seed, naturally
but where
save in the poem
shall it go
to suffer no diminution
of its splendor
— William Carlos Williams
My attitude is one of love
is all adoration
for all the fringes
all the color
all tinsel creation
I like slippers gold
I like oysters cold
and my garden with mixed flowers
and the sky full of towers
and traffic in the streets
and Mallard’s sweets
and Bendel’s clothes
and Nat Lewis hose
and Tappe’s window arrays
and crystal fixtures
and my pictures
and Walt Disney cartoons
and colored balloons.
Image: Florine Stettheimer, Self-Portrait (ca. 1912-14), Columbia University.
TINSEL CREATION 