Kent Johnson

Sestina: Avantforte

“O your perfect, vulgate, hairy sestina.”

--David Shapiro (correspondence with the author)

It's interesting how no one has yet written a sestina about John Ashbery,
Joseph Ceravolo, Barbara Guest, James Schuyler, Frank O'Hara, and Kenneth Koch.
After all, the New York poets wrote a bunch of sestinas, and Frank O'Hara,
of course, though he never wrote one himself, dropped the names of poets in his poems
          like crazy. James Schuyler
did too. He lived at the Chelsea amongst wackos of all kinds. Once, on the morning of
          this poem, when seven thousand saffron panels billowed in the park, on a day you
          could take up the tattered shadows off the grass, Barbara Guest
knocked on his door with a flat shape under her arm. Joseph Ceravolo

answered the door. What are you doing here, she said. Maybe I should be asking you that
          question, said Joseph Ceravolo.
Well, I've got this painting, it's by Joe Brainard, I wanted to show it to Jimmy, and it's
          called “Tangerines.” John Ashbery
gave it to me after Frank O'Hara died, said Barbara Guest.
What do you mean Frank died, cried Joseph, I just saw Kenneth Koch
down at the San Remo, and he didn't say anything about that! Ha ha hee hee, laughed
           James Schuyler,
arranging some jonquils in the kitchenette, you two are a stitch and a half! And they all
          laughed and laughed, like a happy rain, because the world was new, and irony
          was so straightforward then, in the Kennedy era. And just then the phone rang.
          (It was Frank O'Hara!)

You'll never guess what, Jimmy, said Frank. What, Mr. Frank O'Hara?
said Jimmy, with a mock ceremoniousness. Well, don't tell Joe Ceravolo
because I want to tell him myself, and don't tell Kenneth, either, because you know how
          he takes these things, but they are here from Holland to make a movie about me.
          Can you believe it? Oh my God, Frank, squealed James Schuyler,
I can't believe it, that is so fantastic, and even though I am a bit envious, I
           am happy, too, but please can't I tell John Ashbery,
he'll be thrilled, he loves everything Dutch, in fact he just won some prize, and he might
          go there, and I'll tell him not to say a word to Kenneth Koch…
Joseph and Barbara exchanged quizzical looks. Jimmy, what the hell are you talking
          about, demanded Barbara Guest,

who was still standing there in the doorway holding her painting like some acoustic
           panel waiting for sound. Oh, Barbara, do be a good Guest
and come on in, said Jimmy, in his famous punning way, It's Frank O'Hara,
and they're making a movie about him, and it's all in Dutch, O poor Kenneth Koch,
he'll go mad like King George the Third, he's always wanted to be translated into Dutch!
           Actually, interjected Joseph Ceravolo,
he's just been translated into Swedish, by a countess from Minneapolis. A man shouldn't
          complain. . . The sun went behind a small cloud. Barbara was absentmindedly
          running her fingers across the inscription W.H. Auden had written for Jimmy in a
          first edition of Some Trees, by John Ashbery,
it said: To my friend in Foetry and all other things, Mr. James Schuyler.

(signed) W.H. Auden. The sun came out again and gently burned the world.
          James Schuyler,
she said coyly, in a Katherine Hepburn kind of way, do you think he said Foetry on
           purpose, or is that just his handwriting? Barbara Guest,
said Jimmy, clearing his throat and replying in formal kind, I've tried to figure that one
           out myself, it seems almost like a pun, doesn't it, and when I asked John Ashbery
himself, he got all distant and mysterious as a girl in a Vermeer, so I just don't know. By
          this time, Frank O'Hara
was beginning to wonder what had happened to Jimmy, who had become so distracted by
          the conversation with Barbara he had simply forgotten about Frank, and because
          he was on his lunch hour and had to meet Leroi Jones at the Automat, Frank
          decided to hang up. Joseph Ceravolo
said, Um, Jimmy, you kind of left Frank hanging, didn't you? Just then, Kenneth Koch,

still in his twenties (or so he claimed), came bounding up the stairs, crying out the names
          of northern European cities, the energy in and around him so electric, it looked
          like he could take it off and put it back on, like clothes. It's Kenneth Koch!
said Joseph. Hi Kenneth! said Barbara, it's so nice to see you! Hello? Hello? Frank?
          Frank? said James Schuyler.
From my window I dropped a nickel by mistake, said Kenneth, looking fixedly at the
          floor and nearly shouting, so I raced down and found there on the street,
          instead, a good friend, who says to me, in Dutch, Kenneth, do you have a
          minute? And I say, Yes! I am in my twenties! I have plenty of time! And so
          he tells me he's been translating my poetry, and it's going to be published! In
          Holland ! Jimmy quickly hung up the receiver and a look of absolute panic came
          down over his face. Joseph Ceravolo
(for this was a gift he had as a person and as a poet) radically changed the subject with
          the swift and elegant authority of a guillotine: Well, Kenneth, that is so fantastic,
          and even though we are a bit envious, we are happy, too. But look at this
          wonderful painting Barbara Guest
has brought to show us… Kenneth looked up. You have TANGERINES in it, said
          Kenneth. And hey, by the way, he literally yelled, as he started to do jumping
          jacks at a great velocity, What's up with Frank O'Hara?
Wait until he hears about Holland ! Last time I saw him he said he felt like he'd
          never write again! I'm writing a lot, though! So where's he been? Huh? Uh,
          said Jimmy, he's, uh, been editing a new, um, sestina… full of, tou know, cartoon
          characters… by John Ashbery…

Kenneth Koch's eyes got big as pool balls. A sestina ? A sestina by the poet of “The
           Tennis Court Oath,” John Ashbery?
Yes, said James Schuyler, nervously lighting a Gaulois, uh, W.H. Auden suggested he try
           one… I think…Just then, the phone rang again. Joseph Ceravolo, who was
           nearest the death-black machine, answered. Hi Joseph, the pleasant voice said.
           Was that Kenneth I heard shouting right before I hung up? (It was Frank O'Hara!)
Ah, hi, uh, no, no, um, there is no, ah, Olivia Oil who lives here. Sorry. Goodbye. Click.
          The backs of all the chairs were turned towards the sun, and then Kenneth, past
          his seventieth jumping jack, started to get this feeling of exaltation. And! But!
          he yelled. He yelled so loud, it was as if the conjunctions could couple, like in the
          from of a centaur, the living to the dead. Now wait a second, they asked for Olivia
          Oil ? I mean, you've got to be fucking kidding me, said Barbara Guest.