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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=392844" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Why I Am Not A Painter</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=392844" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">I am not a painter, I am a poet.<br>Why? I think I would rather be<br>a painter, but I am not. Well,</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=392844" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">for instance, Mike Goldberg<br>is starting a painting. I drop in.<br>"Sit down and have a drink" he<br>says. I drink; we drink. I look<br>up. "You have SARDINES in it."<br>"Yes, it needed something there."<br>"Oh." I go and the days go by<br>and I drop in again. The painting<br>is going on, and I go, and the days<br>go by. I drop in. The painting is<br>finished. "Where's SARDINES?"<br>All that's left is just<br>letters, "It was too much," Mike says.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=392844" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">But me? One day I am thinking of<br>a color: orange. I write a line<br>about orange. Pretty soon it is a<br>whole page of words, not lines.<br>Then another page. There should be<br>so much more, not of orange, of<br>words, of how terrible orange is<br>and life. Days go by. It is even in<br>prose, I am a real poet. My poem<br>is finished and I haven't mentioned<br>orange yet. It's twelve poems, I call<br>it ORANGES. And one day in a gallery<br>I see Mike's painting, called SARDINES.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=Frank+O%27Hara">Frank O'Hara</a></strong></div>