I absolutely fell in love with the gems of the Beat Generation in college, so I was psyched to see the new flick
It's definitely artsy and fun, but I'd highly recommend re-reading the poem before you go.
We walked past Allen Ginsberg's old apartment on the way home, and it made me think of these old posts from a couple years ago :)
We walked past Allen Ginsberg's old apartment on the way home, and it made me think of these old posts from a couple years ago :)
WEDNESDAY, MAY 14, 2008
The Neatest Thing Happened this Morning ...
(a.k.a Home of the bestest muffins in America!)
Today however, I decided to walk on the north side of the street because that was the sunny side of the sidewalk :)
And low-and-behold, as I was looking at all the apartment entrances, my eye caught this plaque:
I was so taken back by how awesome this is/was!!
Holy wow ... Allen Ginsberg, one of the most renowned poets and activists of the Beat Generation, once lived and wrote history, just 2 blocks from my apartment!!! How incredibly cool :)
I'll never look at 170 2nd Street (or my copy of "Howl")
the same way ever again!
While we're on the topic of the Beat Generation ...
My favorite poem ever written is “Why I’m not a painter”
by Frank O’Hara.
by Frank O’Hara.
The first time I read this I was at Michigan. I remember reading it once, and then over and over again ... I still love it to this day :)
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,
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.
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.
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.
(Sardines, Michael Goldberg, 1955)
That in mind, it comes as no surprise that my second favorite painting in the world is Mark Rothko’s “Orange”:
But even though I love both “Sardines” and “Orange” madly, there may be no greater work of art than my third favorite “painting”…
Tee hee :)
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