Tag Archives: dorothy parker

Feb 26, 2013 Love Song

Dear readers,

In the last half a decade or more, I have generally refrained from commemorating birthdays, graduations, weddings, bar mitzvahs and the like on this forum, due 100% to the fact that for every one of those I would remember, there are 12 I would forget. However, when a founding member gets engaged, and when other readers rally around her cause, I’m flexible enough to rethink policy. So to MV super-commenter Sara Cohan of Nashville, TN, she of the well-researched reply, the personal anecdote, the genocide fetish, the Dorothy Parker fan club, and the undying love of teaching, we wish many many years of happiness, happiness unbesmirched by the kind of bitter irony Parker creates below. I learned something about poetry in producing this week’s edition: the poem is written in what is called “common measure”: Rhymed quatrains where the first and third lines have four beats, and the second and fourth three. It lends an inherent musicality (if it’s not your taste, you might call it “sing-songy”). Parker has upped the challenge for herself. While the form only calls for rhyme at line endings 2 and 4, Parker has rhymed all the lines. It’s wonderful, morbid, and funny. -ed.

Love Song


My own dear love, he is strong and bold
      And he cares not what comes after.
His words ring sweet as a chime of gold,
      And his eyes are lit with laughter.
He is jubilant as a flag unfurled—
      Oh, a girl, she’d not forget him.
My own dear love, he is all my world,—
      And I wish I’d never met him.
My love, he’s mad, and my love, he’s fleet,
      And a wild young wood-thing bore him!
The ways are fair to his roaming feet,
      And the skies are sunlit for him.
As sharply sweet to my heart he seems
      As the fragrance of acacia.
My own dear love, he is all my dreams,—
      And I wish he were in Asia.
My love runs by like a day in June,
      And he makes no friends of sorrows.
He’ll tread his galloping rigadoon
      In the pathway of the morrows.
He’ll live his days where the sunbeams start,
      Nor could storm or wind uproot him.
My own dear love, he is all my heart,—
      And I wish somebody’d shoot him.

March 12, 2012 Symptom Recital

The following nominations for smart aleck of the week were entered by vigilant readers. In no sensible order, they were:
1. Theresa Sullivan
2. Patrick Donahue
3. Yours truly
4. Breen O Conchubhair
5. Dorothy Parker
After extensive research into our respective oeuvres, I’ve decided to go with Dorothy Parker. Nominations are still being accepted, wisenheimers. -ed.
Symptom Recital
I do not like my state of mind;
I’m bitter, querulous, unkind.
I hate my legs, I hate my hands,
I do not yearn for lovelier lands.
I dread the dawn’s recurrent light;
I hate to go to bed at night.
I snoot at simple, earnest folk.
I cannot take the gentlest joke.
I find no peace in paint or type.
My world is but a lot of tripe.
I’m disillusioned, empty-breasted.
For what I think, I’d be arrested.
I am not sick, I am not well.
My quondam dreams are shot to hell.
My soul is crushed, my spirit sore;
I do not like me any more.
I cavil, quarrel, grumble, grouse.
I ponder on the narrow house.
I shudder at the thought of men….
I’m due to fall in love again.