"...bobbing brown corks in the thick pink sea-trough" is just part of a sentence, a clause, in what appears to be a prose poem, that decided to put O'Hara a PERFECT example of a fat, replacement-heavy iambic line right in the middle of. Yeah, he and the other NY Schoolers were all subverting, in various degrees of directness and in sometimes vastly differing aesthetics, that fifties, post-war, post New Crit "well made poem," but they also--again to various degrees--luxuriated in that technique while they were taking it apart, and no one more than Frank, one of the boss post-war prosodists. Shit. I have approximately one jillian books of poetry sitting on shelves and in boxes around this place, but I'm pretty sure none of them are Frank right now. Damn...
O’ Hara’s is an epic glorification of sin and an arcane canticle to love.
Unforgettable Pan passage.
I love that O’Hara’s orange poem “Why I’m Not. Painter” about sardines painting is alluded to in another poem on oranges.
"...bobbing brown corks in the thick pink sea-trough" is just part of a sentence, a clause, in what appears to be a prose poem, that decided to put O'Hara a PERFECT example of a fat, replacement-heavy iambic line right in the middle of. Yeah, he and the other NY Schoolers were all subverting, in various degrees of directness and in sometimes vastly differing aesthetics, that fifties, post-war, post New Crit "well made poem," but they also--again to various degrees--luxuriated in that technique while they were taking it apart, and no one more than Frank, one of the boss post-war prosodists. Shit. I have approximately one jillian books of poetry sitting on shelves and in boxes around this place, but I'm pretty sure none of them are Frank right now. Damn...