POR QUÉ NO SOY PINTOR (FRANK O'HARA)

No soy pintor, soy poeta.
¿Por qué? Creo que podría ser pintor,
pero no. Bueno,

por ejemplo, Mike Goldberg
está empezando un cuadro. Caigo yo.
"Sentate y tomá algo"
dice. Tomo algo, tomamos algo. Levanto
la vista. "Pusiste SARDINAS".
"Sí, le hacía falta algo ahí".
"Ah". Me voy y los días
pasan y caigo de nuevo. El cuadro
va yendo, y yo me voy y los días
pasan. Caigo. El cuadro 
está terminado. "¿Y SARDINAS?"
Lo único que quedan son
letras, "era demasiado", dice Mike.

¿Y yo? Un día pienso en 
un color: naranja. Escribo un verso
sobre el naranja. En seguida hay
una página llena de palabras, no versos.
Y después otra página. Tendría que haber
mucho más, no de naranja, de
palabras, de lo terrible que es el naranja
y de vida. Los días pasan. De hecho está en
prosa, soy un poeta real. Mi poema
está listo y aún no he mencionado 
el naranja. Son doce poemas, lo llamo
NARANJAS. Y un día en una exposición
veo el cuadro de Mike, llamado SARDINAS.

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. - See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/20422#sthash.jysXt5R6.dpuf

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. - See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/20422#sthash.jysXt5R6.dpuf

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. - See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/20422#sthash.jysXt5R6.dpuf