Frank O'Hara
No soy pintor, soy poeta.
¿Por qué? Preferiría ser
un pintor, creo, pero no lo soy. Bien,
por ejemplo, Mike Goldberg
está empezando un cuadro.
Paso por su casa.
“Siéntate y toma algo”, me dice.
Bebo; bebemos. Alzo
la vista. “Le pusiste SARDINAS.”
“Sí, hacía falta algo ahí.”
“Oh.” Me voy y pasan los días
y vuelvo. El cuadro está
terminado. “¿Dónde están las SARDINAS?”
Todo lo que queda
son letras. “Era demasiado”, dice Mike.
¿Pero yo? Un día estoy pensando
en un color: naranja. Escribo una línea
sobre el naranja. Pronto es
una página entera de palabras, no de líneas.
Luego otra página. Debería tener
mucho más, no del naranja, de
palabras, de lo terrible que es el naranja
y la vida. Pasan los días Está en prosa
incluso, soy un auténtico poeta. Mi poema
está terminado y todavía no mencioné
el naranja. Son doce poemas, lo llamo
NARANJAS. Y un día en una galería
veo el cuadro de Mike, llamado SARDINAS.
Frank O’Hara, Estados Unidos, 1926-1966
Versión © Gerardo Gambolini
imagen: Frank O’Hara, fotografía de George Montgomery,
galería de m kasahara
Why I am not a painter
I am not a painter, I am a poet.
Why? I think I would rather be
a painter, but I am not. Well,
for instance, Mike Goldberg
is starting a painting. I drop in.
“Sit down and have a drink” he
says. I drink; we drink. I look
up. “You have SARDINES in it.”
“Yes, it needed something there.”
“Oh.” I go and the days go by
and I drop in again. The painting
is going on, and I go, and the days
go by. I drop in. The painting is
finished. “Where’s SARDINES?”
All that’s left is just
letters, “It was too much,” Mike says.
But me? One day I am thinking of
a color: orange. I write a line
about orange. Pretty soon it is a
whole page of words, not lines.
Then another page. There should be
so much more, not of orange, of
words, of how terrible orange is
and life. Days go by. It is even in
prose, I am a real poet. My poem
is finished and I haven’t mentioned
orange yet. It’s twelve poems, I call
it ORANGES. And one day in a gallery
I see Mike’s painting, called SARDINES.
Why? I think I would rather be
a painter, but I am not. Well,
for instance, Mike Goldberg
is starting a painting. I drop in.
“Sit down and have a drink” he
says. I drink; we drink. I look
up. “You have SARDINES in it.”
“Yes, it needed something there.”
“Oh.” I go and the days go by
and I drop in again. The painting
is going on, and I go, and the days
go by. I drop in. The painting is
finished. “Where’s SARDINES?”
All that’s left is just
letters, “It was too much,” Mike says.
But me? One day I am thinking of
a color: orange. I write a line
about orange. Pretty soon it is a
whole page of words, not lines.
Then another page. There should be
so much more, not of orange, of
words, of how terrible orange is
and life. Days go by. It is even in
prose, I am a real poet. My poem
is finished and I haven’t mentioned
orange yet. It’s twelve poems, I call
it ORANGES. And one day in a gallery
I see Mike’s painting, called SARDINES.
Madres de América
¡dejen ir a sus chicos al cine!
sáquenlos de la casa para que ellos no sepan en qué andan
es cierto que el aire fresco es bueno para el cuerpo
pero qué hay del alma
que crece en la oscuridad, cincelada por imágenes plateadas
y cuando ustedes envejezcan como habrán de envejecer
ellos no las odiarán
no las criticarán no sabrán
estarán en algún país glamoroso
que vieron por primera vez un sábado a la tarde o un día de rabona
quizás incluso les estén agradecidos
por su primera experiencia sexual
que a ustedes les costó 25 centavos solamente
y que no alteró la paz del hogar
ellos sabrán de dónde vienen las golosinas
y las bolsas de popcorn gratuitas
tan gratuitas como irse del cine antes del final
con un amable desconocido cuyo piso está en el edificio El Cielo en la Tierra
cerca del Puente Williamsburg
oh madres habrán hecho tan felices a los niños
porque si nadie se los levanta en el cine
ellos no notarán la diferencia
y si alguien lo hace será una suerte
y habrán estado realmente entretenidos en cualquiera de los casos
en lugar de andar por el patio
o de estar arriba en su cuarto
odiándolas
prematuramente ya que ustedes no habrán hecho nada horriblemente malo todavía
salvo mantenerlos alejados de los goces más oscuros
eso es imperdonable
así que no me culpen si no siguen este consejo
y la familia se desintegra
y sus hijos envejecen y enceguecen delante de un televisor
mirando
películas que no los dejaban ver cuando eran chicos
Frank O’Hara, Estados Unidos, 1926-1966
Versión © Gerardo Gambolini
Ave Maria
Mothers of America
let your kids go to the movies!
get them out of the house so they won’t know what you’re up to
it’s true that fresh air is good for the body
but what about the soul
that grows in darkness, embossed by silvery images
and when you grow old as grow old as you must
they won’t hate you
they won’t criticize you they won’t know
they’ll be in some glamorous country
they first saw on a Saturday afternoon or playing hookey
they may even be grateful to you
for their first sexual experience
which only cost you a quarter
and didn’t upset the peaceful home
they will know where candy bars come from
and gratuitous bags of popcorn
as gratuitous as leaving the movie before it’s over
with a pleasant stranger whose apartment is in the Heaven on Earth Bldg
near the Williamsburg Bridge
oh mothers you will have made the little tykes
so happy because if nobody does pick them up in the movies
they won’t know the difference
and if somebody does it’ll be sheer gravy
and they’ll have been truly entertained either way
instead of hanging around the yard
or up in their room
hating you
prematurely since you won’t have done anything horribly mean yet
except keeping them from the darker joys
it’s unforgivable the latter
so don’t blame me if you won’t take this advice
and the family breaks up
and your children grow old and blind in front of a TV set
seeing
movies you wouldn’t let them see when they were young
let your kids go to the movies!
get them out of the house so they won’t know what you’re up to
it’s true that fresh air is good for the body
but what about the soul
that grows in darkness, embossed by silvery images
and when you grow old as grow old as you must
they won’t hate you
they won’t criticize you they won’t know
they’ll be in some glamorous country
they first saw on a Saturday afternoon or playing hookey
they may even be grateful to you
for their first sexual experience
which only cost you a quarter
and didn’t upset the peaceful home
they will know where candy bars come from
and gratuitous bags of popcorn
as gratuitous as leaving the movie before it’s over
with a pleasant stranger whose apartment is in the Heaven on Earth Bldg
near the Williamsburg Bridge
oh mothers you will have made the little tykes
so happy because if nobody does pick them up in the movies
they won’t know the difference
and if somebody does it’ll be sheer gravy
and they’ll have been truly entertained either way
instead of hanging around the yard
or up in their room
hating you
prematurely since you won’t have done anything horribly mean yet
except keeping them from the darker joys
it’s unforgivable the latter
so don’t blame me if you won’t take this advice
and the family breaks up
and your children grow old and blind in front of a TV set
seeing
movies you wouldn’t let them see when they were young
¡Lana Turner se desmayó!
Yo iba trotando y de pronto
empezó a llover y a nevar
y tú dijiste que granizaba
pero el granizo te pega duro
en la cabeza así que en realidad
nevaba y llovía y yo tenía tanta prisa
para encontrarme contigo pero el tráfico
actuaba exactamente igual que el cielo
y de pronto veo un titular
¡LANA TURNER SE DESMAYÓ!
en Hollywood no hay nieve
en California no llueve
yo estuve en muchas fiestas
y me porté de manera totalmente vergonzosa
pero nunca me desmayé realmente
oh Lana Turner te amamos, despierta
Frank O’Hara, Estados Unidos, 1926-1966
Versión © Gerardo Gambolini
Lana Turner has collapsed!
I was trotting along and suddenly
it started raining and snowing
and you said it was hailing
but hailing hits you on the head
hard so it was really snowing and
raining and I was in such a hurry
to meet you but the traffic
was acting exactly like the sky
and suddenly I see a headline
LANA TURNER HAS COLLAPSED!
there is no snow in Hollywood
there is no rain in California
I have been to lots of parties
and acted perfectly disgraceful
but I never actually collapsed
oh Lana Turner we love you get up
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