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Orangerie
(a gift poem to follow Frank O’Hara’s Why I Am Not a Painter)

J. Quinn Brisben


Two large ovals down below with
Curves of canvas covered from
Almost floor to ceiling with blobs
Of white on blobs of green and blue
And a little pink and lavender:
And I knew I was supposed to see
Them as water lilies, and I have seen
Them as water lilies ever since Mama
Showed me one in a book and said
“These are water lilies,” and I believed,
And they have been in my mind
Between me and real water lilies
Ever since, even here where I see
The blobs close up and further back
The edges of the canvas and hear others
Praising in many languages and not
Faking it all, because our mamas
Told us true, and it is true for sure.

Like Frank O’Hara I am not a painter,
Although I sleep with one, and he
Slept with many and could say like me
“Some of my best friends are painters.”
But poets magic your ears
And mostly leave your eyes alone.
The words are not the same thing
As the shape direct, but they move
In similar ways if they are good.
And gifts for painter friends must be
In words, for that is all I have.





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