Why I Am Not a Painter (Frank O'Hara)

Today's poem is Why I Am Not a Painter by Frank O'Hara.

This poem came up, sort of, one evening in workshop. Someone mentioned hearing about a painting called Sardines that had not a single sardine in it. The conversation started when another person had apologized for bringing in a poem with a title that had nothing to do with the words that followed. It was the spark for the poem only, she had said. It was funny: the person who brought up the example of the sardines was not quoting this poem. She must have read or heard it before, but she had forgotten the true source and she gave the example disassociated from the work. And ain't that proof of the poem in real life?

Favorite line: "My poem/is finished and I haven't mentioned/orange yet. It's twelve poems"