2 betydelige minder om Franks følelser

Først skriver digteren et digt, fordi han har haft nogle følelser, og måske (det er der givetvis forsket i (der er nok også forsket i, hvilke følelser, der præcist er tale om)) er det simpelthen skrevet i én bevægelse på mindre end en time, måske endda mindre end en halv time -

Frank O'Hara: "In Memory of My Feelings":

My quietness has a man in it, he is transparent
and he carries me quietly, like a gondola, through the streets.
He has several likenesses, like stars and years, like numerals.

My quietness has a number of naked selves,
so many pistols I have borrowed to protect myselves
from creatures who too readily recognize my weapons
and have murder in their heart!
though in winter
they are warm as roses, in the desert
taste of chilled anisette.
At times, withdrawn,
I rise into the cool skies
and gaze on at the imponderable world with the simple identification
of my colleagues, the mountains. Manfred climbs to my nape,
speaks, but I do not hear him,
I'm too blue.
An elephant takes up his trumpet,
money flutters from the windows of cries, silk stretching its mirror
across shoulder blades. A gun is "fired."
One of me rushes
to window #13 and one of me raises his whip and one of me
flutters up from the center of the track amidst the pink flamingoes,
and underneath their hooves as they round the last turn my lips
are scarred and brown, brushed by tails, masked in dirt's lust,
definition, open mouths gasping for the cries of the bettors for the lungs
of earth.
So many of my transparencies could not resist the race!
Terror in earth, dried mushrooms, pink feathers, tickets,
a flaking moon drifting across the muddied teeth,
the imperceptible moan of covered breathing,
love of the serpent!
I am underneath its leaves as the hunter crackles and pants
and bursts, as the barrage balloon drifts behind a cloud
and animal death whips out its flashlight,
whistling
and slipping the glove off the trigger hand. The serpent's eyes
redden at sight of those thorny fingernails, he is so smooth!
My transparent selves
flail about like vipers in a pail, writhing and hissing
without panic, with a certain justice of response
and presently the aquiline serpent comes to resemble the Medusa. 

Så læser maleren digtet og bliver inspireret til at male et maleri, et stort maleri, "600 x 399",  og det har helt sikkert taget pænt lang tid at male (og konstruere - at hænge en ske, den helt rigtige ske, i en snor) -

Jasper Johns: "In Memory of My Feelings - Frank O'Hara, 1961":



- og digtet er med alle sine sprogbilleder lige så abstrakt som maleriet med alle sine kratterier er figurativt, og omvendt, som om digtet forsøger at skrive sig ind i en abstrakt ekspressionisme, ved at gå amok med billedsprog, mens maleriet forsøger at male sig ud af abstrakt ekspressionisme, ved at gå amok med kratteri - men STILEN med hvilken, der skrives/billedtales og males/krattes, er så altafgørende nonchalant, distræt anti-ekspressionistisk - OG SKEEN! (og måske parallelt: "window # 13"); og måske er projektet i både digt og maleri at ikke udtrykke, men AFtrykke gennemsigtighed, multi-gennemsigtighed?, bogstaveligt og paradoksalt,

og så kan man læse digtet alene eller sammen med maleriet og se maleriet alene eller sammen med digtet, hvilket ikke er det sammen som at læse digtet sammen med maleriet, og i det hele taget: læs malerier mindre, se digte mere!