"biarritz" poems - Hello Poetry

Having a Coke with You is even more fun than going to San Sebastian, Irún, Hendaye, Biarritz, Bayonne or being sick to my stomach on the Travesera de Gracia in Barcelona partly because in your orange shirt you look like a better happier St. Sebastian partly because of my love for you, partly because of your love for yoghurt partly because of the fluorescent orange tulips around the birches partly because of the secrecy our smiles take on before people and statuary it is hard to believe when I’m with you that there can be anything as still as solemn as unpleasantly definitive as statuary when right in front of it in the warm New York 4 o’clock light we are drifting back and forth between each other like a tree breathing through its spectacles and the portrait show seems to have no faces in it at all, just paint you suddenly wonder why in the world anyone ever did them I look at you and I would rather look at you than all the portraits in the world except possibly for the Polish Rider occasionally and anyway it’s in the Frick which thank heavens you haven’t gone to yet so we can go together the first time and the fact that you move so beautifully more or less takes care of Futurism just as at home I never think of the **** Descending a Staircase or at a rehearsal a single drawing of Leonardo or Michelangelo that used to wow me and what good does all the research of the Impressionists do them when they never got the right person to stand near the tree when the sun sank or for that matter Marino Marini when he didn’t pick the rider as carefully as the horse it seems they were all cheated of some marvelous experience which is not going to go wasted on me which is why I am telling you about it by, FRANK O'HARA

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Mar 13, 2013

Mar 13, 2013 at 12:27 PM UTC

sandra-liz

Having a Coke with You

Having a Coke with You is even more fun than going to San Sebastian, Irún, Hendaye, Biarritz, Bayonne or being sick to my stomach on the Travesera de Gracia in Barcelona partly because in your orange shirt you look like a better happier St. Sebastian partly because of my love for you, partly because of your love for yoghurt partly because of the fluorescent orange tulips around the birches partly because of the secrecy our smiles take on before people and statuary it is hard to believe when I’m with you that there can be anything as still as solemn as unpleasantly definitive as statuary when right in front of it in the warm New York 4 o’clock light we are drifting back and forth between each other like a tree breathing through its spectacles and the portrait show seems to have no faces in it at all, just paint you suddenly wonder why in the world anyone ever did them I look at you and I would rather look at you than all the portraits in the world except possibly for the Polish Rider occasionally and anyway it’s in the Frick which thank heavens you haven’t gone to yet so we can go together the first time and the fact that you move so beautifully more or less takes care of Futurism just as at home I never think of the **** Descending a Staircase or at a rehearsal a single drawing of Leonardo or Michelangelo that used to wow me and what good does all the research of the Impressionists do them when they never got the right person to stand near the tree when the sun sank or for that matter Marino Marini when he didn’t pick the rider as carefully as the horse it seems they were all cheated of some marvelous experience which is not going to go wasted on me which is why I am telling you about it by, FRANK O'HARA

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El casino sorbe las últimas gotas de crepúsculo. Automóviles afónicos. Escaparates constelados de estrellas falsas. Mujeres que van a perder sus sonrisas al bacará. Con la cara desteñida por el tapete, los croupiers ofician, los ojos bizcos de tanto ver pasar dinero. ¡Pupilas que se licuan al dar vuelta las cartas! ¡Collares de perlas que hunden un tarascón en las gargantas! Hay efebos barbilampiños que usan una bragueta en el trasero. Hombres con baberos de porcelana. Un señor con un cuello que terminará por estrangularlo. Unas tetas que saltarán de un momento a otro de un escote, y lo arrollarán todo, como dos enormes bolas de billar. Cuando la puerta se entreabre, entra un pedazo de "foxtrot".

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387

Oliverio Girondo

Biarritz

El casino sorbe las últimas gotas de crepúsculo. Automóviles afónicos. Escaparates constelados de estrellas falsas. Mujeres que van a perder sus sonrisas al bacará. Con la cara desteñida por el tapete, los croupiers ofician, los ojos bizcos de tanto ver pasar dinero. ¡Pupilas que se licuan al dar vuelta las cartas! ¡Collares de perlas que hunden un tarascón en las gargantas! Hay efebos barbilampiños que usan una bragueta en el trasero. Hombres con baberos de porcelana. Un señor con un cuello que terminará por estrangularlo. Unas tetas que saltarán de un momento a otro de un escote, y lo arrollarán todo, como dos enormes bolas de billar. Cuando la puerta se entreabre, entra un pedazo de "foxtrot".

7

Being unable to write in Biarritz is like: Granulated salt lining the insides of your nostrils And the sneeze that never quite comes or Writing out a shopping list and forgetting half the things on it in the French market hall that is loud But also somehow overwhelmingly quiet and You get frazzled by the French words you don’t know and The way that they pour over you or Topple like Dreamy foam on golden beaches and Salt water inside of your brain like Liquid French, d’accord? Every word written over the last three weeks— Sans stylo— End-of-summer ghosts Wrapped in cashmere sweaters and The way that they f l o a t — Not the words (sans stylo) Tumbling, rolling, becoming complete- -ly different in my mind. But the shadow of women Whose bones one can so easily count and Make me Shake inside, wondering how closely that Could have been me? But this writelessness, it does not float. Not even knowing the words to write about The words I am not writing or Does it dig? Into the depths of the soul, demanding to know If the thoughts run through your mind Constantly like Endless plates of tapas and the gluttony of Speaking perfect French after three bottles of Red wine; Then why must you dig, To write it down? Not writing in Biarritz is like Bickering with the one you love over - the shopping list - the sand inside of your nose and - your subsequent feelings of inadequacy about being unable to surf a wave. Because you forgot for five minutes, Five months, Five years, Of the most important thing that there is. And the way that he looked at you and Held your tiny face in his hands in The airport when you first met, Saying goodbye, Unknowing it would soon be the warmest hello in the entire world. Forgetting how to write in Biarritz is like being overwhelmed By the mundane and so You forget that This is the most important thing that Is here.

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Sep 23, 2018

Sep 23, 2018 at 6:37 AM UTC

eleanorking

Being Unable to Write in Biarritz, France

Being unable to write in Biarritz is like: Granulated salt lining the insides of your nostrils And the sneeze that never quite comes or Writing out a shopping list and forgetting half the things on it in the French market hall that is loud But also somehow overwhelmingly quiet and You get frazzled by the French words you don’t know and The way that they pour over you or Topple like Dreamy foam on golden beaches and Salt water inside of your brain like Liquid French, d’accord? Every word written over the last three weeks— Sans stylo— End-of-summer ghosts Wrapped in cashmere sweaters and The way that they f l o a t — Not the words (sans stylo) Tumbling, rolling, becoming complete- -ly different in my mind. But the shadow of women Whose bones one can so easily count and Make me Shake inside, wondering how closely that Could have been me? But this writelessness, it does not float. Not even knowing the words to write about The words I am not writing or Does it dig? Into the depths of the soul, demanding to know If the thoughts run through your mind Constantly like Endless plates of tapas and the gluttony of Speaking perfect French after three bottles of Red wine; Then why must you dig, To write it down? Not writing in Biarritz is like Bickering with the one you love over - the shopping list - the sand inside of your nose and - your subsequent feelings of inadequacy about being unable to surf a wave. Because you forgot for five minutes, Five months, Five years, Of the most important thing that there is. And the way that he looked at you and Held your tiny face in his hands in The airport when you first met, Saying goodbye, Unknowing it would soon be the warmest hello in the entire world. Forgetting how to write in Biarritz is like being overwhelmed By the mundane and so You forget that This is the most important thing that Is here.

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