[O'Hara translation 1]

What is the word? for this cris-de-cour? No —
it is not plain enough for such an elegant dance and tentative

Come, bricabrack, the angelic beads
of morning, dew — lemon trees blossom, I am

A tinier prize, the presence of more
and these articles roundly sound. (Zzzz — they snore!)

Embrace me, I am graying — the hour is late
& the chase is on, atop railway cars, calm in the sunlight

In my memory, a chance reunion, a recollection
rare as it is painful

All the world dances, more and more each day,
while I recall a ferocious homily




[A translation of Frank O'Hara's "Qu'est-ce que de nous!" Jack Spicer's remarks to Lorca's ghost in After Lorca are relevant: "When I translate one of your poems and I come across words I do not understand, I always guess at their meanings. I am inevitably right. A really perfect poem (no one yet has written one) could be perfectly translated by a person who did not know one word of the language it was written in."]