Four Poems: J.A. Holm
portrait of frank o’hara (1952) after the painting by Larry Rivers
Always talking with his hands, as if opening up for us
the Reverdy he’s just read, or perhaps unbuttoning his shirt
lower and lower and . . . How could he keep still,
posing before the man he loved? His handsome flesh transfigured
into paint, into history— their world slowed toward meaning.
I share this longing to lay bare under streetlights in Manhattan,
though I clothe myself quickly after love. It’s not in my own nudity
where I discover the crest of desire, but in the crooked nose of a man
buried decades before my arrival.
A man whose hands raised the morning
on Fire Island, whose voice crashed beneath the waves as he called out
to the young man behind the wheel of the jeep: Wait! Wait just a minute!
You’ve made me lose my train of thought!
Portrait of Frank O’Hara (1953) after
the painting by Larry Rivers
When I wash the dishes, I always listen to a reading you did at SUNY, so religiously that when I call out to my lover, it is you who chirps yes love? from the other room, and for a moment I’m the luckiest man alive. In the bright of the afternoon I feel you hunched over in the garden of my chest, your khakis cuffed as you burrow deeper inside of me, like a vole between the tomatoes and acorn squash, soil thick below your fingernails. But oh, love, look how you’ve dirtied your white oxford I ironed just this morning, and where’s your tie? Did you straighten your broken nose again? I told you I like all your imperfections, the way they make you look like one of the roughs.
O’Hara Nude with Boots (1954)
After the painting by Larry Rivers
Like Washington crossing the Delaware you stand courageous. Your left foot high on the ship’s bow, pressing forward into uncertainty, eager to plant your flag in the shadowed land of another man. And wouldn’t we all line up to follow you into battle? O flawless, feminine sun. Lead the charge with the tip of your bayonet which thrusts toward eternity. I’m coming to see you in the Tibor de Nagy, crawling on my knees with a tin of Esquire boot polish and a crumpled rag to shine your butch boots and gaze upward at how large you’ve become in death. How you lived as variously as possible.
Double Portrait of Frank O’Hara (1955) after
the painting by Larry Rivers
I.
For weeks I’ve wandered, nearly starved for the affection promised by the wilds of your widow’s peak. My path marked with lint pulled from your Brooks Brothers tweed jacket as I search for your coy New England smile in the paint layered by Larry’s labor. Too easily you disappear into your own wilderness, your eyes already reaching for the lips of your next infatuation. Where do you go these nights I lie awake with your ghost knitting some sweater beside me? You’ve complicated things, Frank, for my lover and me, our little table set for two, a plate of carbonara covered in the fridge, both glasses of Bordeaux emptied, and the rest of the bottle I’ve taken to bed.
II.
I sit across from the Great Plains of your forehead, the Modern Museum of your forehead, The Great American Novel of your forehead. Both of us deep in our studies. A book lazy in your lap: Physiology 101. Studying the physical now are you? Have you given up on words? On writing funny little plays with your friends? Or are you just trying to learn about yourself for once? How much heartbreak your chest can hold before a downpour, before you have another
J.A. HOLM
one of your spells. It’s bad for us both to pine too much, lest we become an aching copse of unanswered desire.