Caravaggio, The Cardsharps, 1571, Kimbell Art Museum

 

 

Hôtel Transylvanie

by Frank O’Hara

 

 

Shall we win at love or shall we lose
————————————————————can it be
that hurting and being hurt is a trick forcing the love
we want to appear, that the hurt is a card
and is it black? is it red? is it a paper, dry of tears
chevalier, change your expression! the wind is sweeping over
the gaming tables ruffling the cards/they are black and red
like a Futurist torture and how do you know it isn’t always there
waiting while doubt is the father that has you kidnapped by friends

———yet you will always live in a jealous society of accident
you will never know how beautiful you are or how beautiful
the other is, you will continue to refuse to die for yourself
you will continue to sing on trying to cheer everyone up
and the will know as the listen with excessive pleasure that you’re dead
———and they will not mind that they have let you entertain
at the expense of the only thing you want in the world/you are amusing
as a game is amusing when someone is forced to lose as in a game I must

——————————————oh hôtel, you should be merely a bed
surrounded by walls where two souls meet and do nothing but breathe
breathe in breathe out fuse illuminate confuse stick dissemble
but not as cheaters at cards have something to win/you have only to be
as you are being, as you must be, as you always are, as you shall be forever
no matter what fate deals you or the imagination discards like a tyrant
as the drums descend and summon the hatchet over the tinseled realities

you know that I am not here to fool around, that I must win or die
I expect you to do everything because it is of no consequence/no duel
you must rig the deck you must make me win at whatever cost to the reputation
of the establishment/sublime moment of dishonest hope/I must win
for if the floods of tears arrive they will wash it all away
—————————————————————————————and then
you will know what it is to want something, but you may not be allowed
to die as I have died, you may only be allowed to drift downstream
to another body of inimical attractions for which you will substitute/distrust
and I will have had my revenge on the black bitch of my nature which you
———————————————love as I have never loved myself
but I hold on/I am lyrical to a fault/I do not despair being too foolish
where will you find me, projective verse, since I will be gone?
for six seconds of your beautiful face I will sell the hotel and commit
an uninteresting suicide in Louisiana where it will take them a long time
to know who I am/why I came there/what and why I am and made to happen

 

_____________________________

“Hotel Transylvanie”, The Collected Poems of Frank O’Hara, Alfred A. Knopf, 1995

Eight of Hearts, with jottings by Jean-Jacques Rousseau.
(One of the twenty-seven playing cards found with the unfinished manuscript of Les Rêveries d’un promeneur solitaire at the death of Rousseau in 1778.)

from Boring Postcards U.S.A., Martin Parr, Phaidon Press 2004

 

 

Where We Live

By Michael Dickman

 

                     For John Guare

 

 

 

I used to live

in a mother now I live

in a sunflower

 

Blinded by the silverware

 

Blinded by the refrigerator

 

I sit on a sidewalk

in the sunflower and its yellow

downpour

 

The light of  the world

beads up on one perfect

green leaf

 

It scribbles its name on every living thing then erases it so what’s left is more of a whisper than a mother

 

Here it’s spring

 

Over and over and over again

 

•

 

I used to live

in a cloud now I live

in a crow

 

It’s tiny and crippled in there but I can find my way to the bathroom in the dark if   I need to

 

All the windows

in the crow are left open

and let the clouds in

 

Back in

 

They float past my bed and have nothing to say

 

Hello it’s nice to meet you!

 

From a telephone pole

tongues slide out singing

welcome home

 

Welcome home they sing

 

•

 

I used to live

in a tree now I live

in a king

 

He waves his arms in front of   him and endless migrations of   birds disappear into his coat

 

I like to sit up inside

his crown eating sandwiches

and watching tv

 

Hills shake in the distance when he shuffles his feet

Floods when he snaps his fingers

 

I bow inside his brow and the afternoon stretches out

Orders more sandwiches

 

And sells the slaves

 

and sets the slaves free

 

and sells the slaves

 

 

 

“Where We Live” appears in Poetry (December 2013).

____________________

Michael Dickman, a 2009 Hodder Fellow, is currently Lecturer in Creative Writing at the Lewis Center for the Arts. Dickman was born and raised in the Lents neighborhood of Portland Oregon. He has received fellowships from the Michener Center for Writers in Austin, Texas, the Fine Arts Work Center, and the Vermont Studio Center, and he won the 2008 Narrative Prize. His poems have appeared in The New Yorker, The American Poetry Review, Field, Tin House, Narrative Magazine and others.