Читать книгу The Poetry of Frank O'Hara - Frank O’Hara - Страница 18

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1 The rain, its tiny pressure on your scalp. like ants passing the door of a tobacconist. "Hello!" they cry, their noses glistening. They are humming a scherzo ny Tcherepnin. They are carrying violin cases. With their feelers knitting over their heads the blue air, they appear at the door of the Conservatory and cry "Ah!" at the honey of its outpourings. They stand in the street and hear the curds drifting on the top of the milk of Conservatory.

2 They had thought themselves in Hawaii when suddenly the pines, trembling with nightfulness, shook them out of their sibyllance. The surf was full of outriggers racing like slits in the eye of the sun, yet the surf was full of great black logs plunging, and then the surf was full of needless. The surf was bland and white, as pine trees are white when, in Paradise, no wind is blowing.

3 In Ann Arbor on Sunday afternoon at four-thirty they went to an organ recital: Messiaen, Hindemith, Czerny. And in their ears a great voice said "To have great music we must commission it. To commission great music we must have great commissioners." There was a blast! and summer was over

4 Rienzi! A rabbit is sitting in the hedge! it is a brown stone! it is the month of October! it is an orange bassoon! They've benn standing on this mountain for forty-eight hours without flinching. Well, they are soldiers, I guess, and it is all marching magnificently by.