Welcome back to the Daily Poem, a podcast from Goldberry Studios. I'm David Kern, and today is Tuesday, June 27th,

2023. Today's poem is by an American poet named Frank O'Hara, who was born March 27th, 1926th, lived until July 25th,

1966.

O'Hara is one of the more notable and influential poets of the middle of the 20th century.

His notable books included lunch poems and meditations in an emergency.

He and poets like John Ashbury were part of the New York School,

which was a big part of the New York

art world in the 50s and 60s. He even became a curator at the Museum of Modern Art for a little

while. The poem that I'm going to read today is called Cambridge. And frankly, it's not a great

summer poem. It's a winter poem. But it's so hot here in North Carolina today that I felt like contemplating the cold a little bit.

So here is today's poem Frank O'Hara's Cambridge.

It is still raining and the yellow green cotton fruit looks silly around a window giving out on winter trees, with only three drab leaves left.

The hot plate works. It is the sole heat on earth, an instant coffee.

I put on my warm corduroy pants, a heavy maroon sweater, and wrap myself in my old maroon bathrobe.

Just like Posternock and Marburg, they say Italy and France are colder, but I'm sure that Germany is at least as cold as this.

And lacking the master's inspiration, I may freeze to death before I can get out under the white rain.

I could have left the window closed last night, but that's where hell comes from.

His breath from the Ural's drawing me into flame like a forgotten cigarette.

Burn.

This is not negligible being poetic, and not feeble, since it's sponsored by the greatest

living Russian poet at incalculable cost. Across the street, there is a house under construction,

abandoned to the rain. Secretly, I shall go work on it.

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