Tag: wit

Excuse My Dust

If I have a literary heroine, it is without doubt journalist/author/poet Dorothy Parker.

Some called her style sardonic, and labelled her a “wisecracker” (a term she apparently hated). Raised in a unhappy home, Parker went on to become one of the greatest writers of her generation.

Her legacy is – I hate to say and apologize to you, Dorothy – a body of the best wisecracks and witticisms in our modern era.

Her genius was her ability to manipulate words and offer up her wry, dry wit and perspective to turn heads and eke out a chuckle on just about every topic.

Damn she was funny. And smart. What follows below is a sampling of her poems.

She never fails to delight or provoke me. I hope her wiseacre persona impacts you likewise.

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Parker died on June 7, 1967, of a heart attack at the age of 73. In her will, she bequeathed her estate to Martin Luther King Jr. Following King’s death, her estate was passed on to the NAACP. Her ashes remained unclaimed in various places, including her attorney Paul O’Dwyer’s filing cabinet, for approximately 17 years.

Her ashes were ultimately buried in Woodlawn Cemetery on August 22, 2020. Attached to her urn was a brass plaque that read:

Dorothy R. Parker

1893-1967

“Excuse My Dust”’

Here are some quotes and poems by Dorothy Parker for your consideration:

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“Beauty is only skin deep, but ugly goes clean to the bone.”

― Dorothy Parker

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“If you want to know what God thinks of money, just look at the people he gave it to.”

― Dorothy Parker

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“If you wear a short enough skirt, the party will come to you.”

― Dorothy Parker

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“Ducking for apples — change one letter and it’s the story of my life.”

–Dorothy Parker

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Résumé

Razors pain you,

Rivers are damp,

Acids stain you,

And drugs cause cramp.

Guns aren’t lawful,

Nooses give,

Gas smells awful.

You might as well live.

― Dorothy Parker, Enough Rope

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Men

They hail you as their morning star

Because you are the way you are.

If you return the sentiment,

They’ll try to make you different;

And once they have you, safe and sound,

They want to change you all around.

Your moods and ways they put a curse on;

They’d make of you another person.

They cannot let you go your gait;

They influence and educate.

They’d alter all that they admired.

They make me sick, they make me tired.

― Dorothy Parker

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A Dream Lies Dead

A dream lies dead here.

May you softly go

Before this place, and turn away your eyes,

Nor seek to know the look of that which dies

Importuning Life for life. Walk not in woe,

But, for a little, let your step be slow.

And, of your mercy, be not sweetly wise

With words of hope and Spring and tenderer skies.

A dream lies dead; and this all mourners know:

Whenever one drifted petal leaves the tree-

Though white of bloom as it had been before

And proudly waitfull of fecundity-

One little loveliness can be no more;

And so must Beauty bow her imperfect head

Because a dream has joined the wistful dead!

–Dorothy Parker

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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.

― Dorothy Parker

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Unfortunate Coincidence

By the time you swear you’re his,

Shivering and sighing,

And he vows his passion is

Infinite, undying –

Lady, make a note of this:

One of you is lying.

–Dorothy Parker

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“That would be a good thing for them to cut on my tombstone: Wherever she went, including here, it was against her better judgment.”

― Dorothy Parker

Mouths of Babes

I remember I liked going to church to hear “Jesus stories.” Jesus sounded like a nice man. And I liked that he seemed to get children. Or he didn’t want to see them suffer. Something like that.

Our elderly neighbor dear Reverend Oakley was always kind and approving of us kids, especially after we came home from Sunday School. I figured he was probably a good friend of that Jesus guy, too. Nice men tend to hang out with nice men.

Rev. Oakley was a war veteran and had a wooden leg. He let us knock our little fists on it and showed us the lower part. Rev. Oakley must have been very brave when he was a soldier.

I remember I loved singing in Sunday School. A favorite was Jesus Loves Me.

So I didn’t quite get my mother’s reaction when one Sunday after church, my sister and I pitched into an enthusiastic rendition of Jesus Loves Me for Rev. Oakley’s exclusive entertainment.

‘Jesus loves me, This I know, ‘Cause Old Oakley told me so” … We went on, “Little ones to him belong, They are weak and he is strong, “YEESSSS, Jesus loves me. YEESSSS, Jesus loves me, YEESSSS, Jesus loves me and then sotto voce and reverentially, of course, “Old Oakley told me so.”

It may have been my Uncle Scott’s fault.

He was a lovely man with a dry wit and frequently took it upon himself to teach us nursery rhymes.

A favorite went like this:

“Spider, spider on the wall, Have you got no brains at all? Can’t you see that wall is plastered. Get off that wall you stupid …… spider.”

Mom would “tsk, tsk” and my father would growl faintly and disapprovingly under his breath. My sister and I could not have been more proud than when we are finally able – word for word – to recite the whole spider poem that Uncle Scott had taught us. Uncle Scott was the best.

I long for the days of innocent wordplay. They seem unlikely to come again. Back then, there seemed to be respect for words and their power. To inform, to entertain, to amuse, or to confound. They were still largely innocent. At least they were to us kids who took such delight. in learning and reciting them. Which is silly to say, of course, because we were the innocents. We weren’t old enough to realize words could be weapons.

Memorizing poems used to be a thing in school. My mother used to recite countless poems verbatim. Such were the mandatories of her education. The Highwayman. The Charge of the Light Brigade. Others whose names have now escaped my memory.

For fun as teenagers, a bunch of us would sit around the living room with Ogden Nash books and read one or more of his poems at a time. Each poem was more humorous and delightful than the next.

Sounds archaic, doesn’t it? Today teenagers sit together anywhere and converse via texts. Language has been stripped down to its’ barest of bare bones. Which is a kind of code for decimation.

Perhaps that is why I cleave to my tale-telling posts. To defend the honor of words. To protect them from oblivion. To gently reminisce about Old Reverend Oakley and dear Uncle Scott.

Thankfully in holding up words, I am not alone in this undertaking. What will the world ever do if all the writers are gone?