If you’re feeling like the world is currently one giant, unmade bed of anxiety, you aren't alone. Honestly, most of us are just "trotting along" (to borrow a phrase) trying not to collapse while the news cycle does its best to flatten us. But there’s this guy—this tall, fast-talking, New York City poet named Frank O’Hara—who figured out how to handle a breakdown back in the fifties. He didn't do it with green juice or "mindfulness apps." He did it with a cheeseburger, a Coke, and the radical idea that your personal life is more important than the apocalypse.
Frank O'Hara in times of crisis isn't just a literary topic for grad students. It’s a survival strategy.
The Philosophy of the "Emergency"
O'Hara's most famous collection is literally called Meditations in an Emergency. Most people hear "meditation" and think of monks or quiet rooms. Not Frank. His version of a meditation is more like a frantic internal monologue while dodging yellow cabs on 57th Street.
In the titular poem, he drops a line that should be tattooed on the inside of everyone's eyelids: "In times of crisis, we must all decide again and again whom we love."
That's it. That is the whole game.
When things get messy—whether it's a global pandemic, a breakup, or a political meltdown—the temptation is to get "lofty." We want to solve the big problems. We want to be "serious." But O'Hara argues that being serious is often just a way of being bored or avoiding the truth. He writes, "I can’t even enjoy a blade of grass unless I know there’s a subway handy." He refuses to pretend that nature or "higher ideals" matter more than the messy, vibrating reality of other people.
Why Logic is the Enemy
Here is a weird thing Frank believed: pain produces logic, and logic is bad for you.
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Think about it. When you’re hurting, your brain tries to build a cage of "why" and "how." You try to rationalize the crisis. O'Hara basically says: don't. He suggests that we should go on our "nerve." If someone is chasing you with a knife, you don't explain why you're running. You just run.
In a crisis, we spend so much energy trying to be "correct" or "prepared." O'Hara invites us to be "perfectly disgraceful" instead. He’s the poet of the immediate. He reminds us that even when the country is "grey and brown," you can still find a "beautiful de Kooning" painting or a record store that proves people "do not totally regret life."
Personism: The Art of the Phone Call
In 1959, O'Hara wrote this hilarious thing called "Personism: A Manifesto." He claims he founded this "movement" after having lunch with LeRoi Jones (the great Amiri Baraka). He realized while writing a poem for a guy he was in love with that he could have just picked up the phone instead.
This sounds like a joke, but it’s actually a profound shift in how to live through a crisis.
- Stop writing for the "ages." Write for one person.
- The "Lucky Pierre" Style. The poem (or the work, or the day) sits between two people. It’s an intimate act, not a monument.
- Forget the Muse. The person on the other end of the line is what matters.
When the world feels like it’s ending, the "big picture" is usually terrifying and useless. But the person you want to get a drink with? That’s real. O'Hara's poetry is famous for being "I do this, I do that" poems. He walks to the bank. He buys a book. He sees a poster. It’s mundane, but in a crisis, the mundane is the only thing that keeps you tethered to the earth.
The Lana Turner Lesson
One day in 1962, O'Hara was on a ferry to Staten Island. He saw a headline: "LANA TURNER HAS COLLAPSED!"
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Most "serious" poets would find that trivial. Frank wrote a poem.
He compares his own frantic morning—the rain, the snow, the feeling of being late—to this Hollywood icon’s collapse. He ends by saying, "Lana Turner, we love you get up." It’s a plea for all of us. We are all a step away from a "collapse," but the fact that we care about each other’s survival—even the survival of a movie star we’ve never met—is what makes life worth the trouble.
How to Actually Use Frank O'Hara Right Now
If you are currently in the middle of your own personal or societal emergency, don't look for a "map." Maps are for places that have already been discovered. Instead, try the O'Hara method.
1. Lower your stakes. You don't have to be a hero today. You don't even have to be "good." O'Hara says it's "easy to be beautiful; it is difficult to appear so." Stop trying to look like you're handling it. Just be in it.
2. Focus on the "Least Sincere." In Meditations, O'Hara writes, "It is more important to confirm the least sincere; the clouds get enough attention as it is." We spend so much time looking at the "big truths." Try looking at the "small lies" instead—the outfits, the gossip, the bad movies. They are the padding that keeps the "filth of life" from bruising us too badly.
3. Move faster. O'Hara’s poems have this "trotting" rhythm. If you stay still, the "catastrophe of your personality" starts to feel heavy. If you keep moving—walking through the city, going from "desk to desk"—you don't give the dread a chance to settle.
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4. Pick a Person. Next time you feel the "emergency" rising, don't post to a void. Call one person. Tell them what you’re eating. Tell them you saw a weird bird. Put the "emergency" between two people instead of letting it sit in your own head.
The Myth of the Quiet Life
A lot of people think the answer to a crisis is "getting away from it all." They want the "pastoral life" or the "innocent past." O'Hara hated that. He famously said he couldn't enjoy a blade of grass without a subway nearby.
He’s telling us that the "emergency" is where the life is. You don't find peace by escaping to a cabin; you find it by "bursting forth" into the crowd. You find it in the "ecstasy of always bursting forth!"
Your Actionable Survival Kit
Honestly, the best way to handle Frank O'Hara in times of crisis is to stop reading about him and start acting like him. Here is your "Frank" to-do list for a bad week:
- Write a "I do this, I do that" note. Spend ten minutes writing down exactly what you did this morning. No metaphors. "I bought a coffee. The guy had a blue hat. I felt a bit sick." It anchors you.
- Identify your "Richard Barthelmess." In his poem to the film industry, O'Hara lists the stars who "illumine space" for him. Who are yours? What "cosmic entertainment" is keeping you sane right now? Acknowledge it without shame.
- Reject the "Interminable List." O'Hara mentions the "interminable list" of people who have broken his heart. We all have that list. Today, decide to be "adventurous" instead of bitter.
- Go on your nerve. The next small decision you have to make—what to eat, what to wear, which way to walk—don't be logical. Just do the thing that feels like it has the most "immortal energy."
Frank O'Hara died young, in a freak accident on a beach. It was a literal emergency. But his poems don't feel tragic. They feel like he’s still in the room, leaning against the wall, telling you that even though the world is a mess, you look great in that orange shirt and we should probably go get a drink.
He didn't want to be a legend; he wanted to be a friend. And in a crisis, a friend is usually more useful than a legend anyway.
Next Steps for the "Emergency":
Start by reading Meditations in an Emergency out loud. Don't worry about what it "means." Just feel the rhythm of someone who is refusing to let the "all-encompassing snake" of dread get the better of them. Then, go buy a pocket book, get on a train, and write a poem for someone you haven't talked to in a year. Or just buy them a Coke. It's basically the same thing.