Yesterday, at the instigation of Edwina Attlee and a small collaborative group sheltering in plain sight under the name, Sitting Room, some twenty to thirty people, my daughter Molly Ernestine and myself included, gathered in the foyer of The Poetry Library in London’s Royal Festival Hall to celebrate the 50th anniversary of the death of the poet Frank O’Hara with a reading of his collection, Lunch Poems, in its entirety. Papers were shuffled, poems were duly read and savoured, sandwiches were eaten; copies of the City Lights Pocket Poets edition of Lunch Poems (none of them, I imagine, firsts) were passed from hand to hand, shared, relished, laughed over and wondered at, enjoyed. In that good company, Frank, I like to think, would have felt quite at home.
Some Days You Do ... 