(For Rain)

Written as a tribute to 1960s New York poet, Frank O'Hara. 

On February 26 
in the year of 2025
Rain brought Frank O’Hara to The Motley
for a short while he was reborn
in another place 
in another time
where the words of other worlds and other times 
are allowed to be reborn 
and encouraged to live on

I had forgotten the name Frank O’Hara
until Rain reminded me of the small orange and blue 1964 book I had recently been dipping into 
and here he was again
speaking again
speaking through Rain
being spoken of

the book is called “Lunch Poems”
I had come to think of him as a street poet
an observation recorder
but he is also a nonsense,  a blender, a masher of words
a poet whose name I hadn’t quite yet fully retained 
but I had sort of retained what he was doing at the time

Rain suggested I go and visit him on YouTube 
I found some short and grainy black and white film recordings of him reciting and explaining his work
we take such things for granted
but it felt miraculous to be in the room with him in those moments
I wished I could talk with him
still I absorbed what he read and said and I dare to paraphrase here

Poems
poems
are made of words
the words don’t have to mean anything 
poems are the vehicles
for words 
to create a feeling 
you can mix up words 
in any way
as long as the feeling comes out 
and stays