A treasure in this daily email from The Paris Review that feeds you a poem from its archives at some point in the morning so one can savor the poem with coffee and frame the day in its traces, if such urges strike. As one who has appreciated this treasure for several years, and who recommends it to others regularly, I encourage you to visit this page and put a check-mark next to the daily poem newsletter.
And here is the poem that appeared in my inbox on December 31, 2024, which is to say, yesterday, the final breath of the year prior, the last gasp of said annum.
Corresponding Foreignly
by Frank O’Hara
1
You may flaunt my looseness, you know
that I go whole weeks without, so, I
get depressed because I’m so easily distracted
from sex. It’s not something you can keep
your mind on without losing it.
2
Certain eases appeal to me more than the flowering quinces
and your black pear branches dripping white petals.
I’m not a pastoral type any more, I take the subway
back and forth from beds to days or bed-in-the-day-time
and if pleased am a dirty flower at the end of ragtagging
it. “I hear you were downtown last night. It was just like
old times.’’ What a thing to say in an elevator. I’d feel
rather more assured, though, if we were rolling in a field
screaming above the records and the Japanese lanterns.
I hate the country and its bells and its photographs.
3
When he went west we thought he’d be big in the movies
with his humanity kick. The others went off to another party
but we went home and forgot each other in a good talk.
Then the radiators cracked and puffed and it did get warmer
but I dreamt of an anxiety the size of a public building,
something to race your car in and waken echoes. Did
you mention that you saw me dancing with a sculpture last week
in the Bowery? It was an audition and we called ourselves “The Bananas.”
4
Four little rats came into the house
because it had grown so cold out,
and they knew they’d be allowed the run
of our lives in the winter
when the weather doesn’t favor them.
5
I met him in Los Angeles
and after weeks of feverish love
couldn’t remember what he looked like
if he was farther away than the john.
I wondered what he had done
to me. He was like a shrike.
I don’t know if it was really love
and he’s left Los Angeles.
6
I have a tic of thinking about it, if
they can really fine you for paying the rent
late. His photograph would have to be moved
to a new building, and by now it’s the size
of a mural. It would take weeks. I won’t.