I just received my 1936 copy of Dorothy Parker‘s “The Collected Poetry Of Dorothy Parker”. Here I share the final poem in the book, a wry and timely piece, shining a succinct light on the ever changing attitudes of love and infatuation. That gal cracks me up. ~TH~
In May my heart was breaking-
Oh wide the wound, and deep!
And bitter it beat at waking,
And sore it split in sleep.
And when it came November,
I sought my heart, and sighed,
“Poor thing, do you remember?”
“What heart was that?” it cried.
It was my mother who taught me to cradle a
Blade of grass between my thumbs
Cuticles aligned and haunches pressed together
Creating the reed chamber
The first time she fashioned this magic
We sat by our hickory tree
The rock-hard nuts would sound off on any car
Parked too close to the cinderblock wall
My mother and I shared a penchant for silence
When we were among the fall leaves and branches
She plucked a broad grass from between us, blowing
Setting it loudly aquiver, shrill as a clarinet
Startling miraculous sound!
Please, yes! Show me how it’s done
It was then my mother taught me
The pleasant nature of patient curiosity.
Last Day Of Summer, 2016
So now I write of the end of a season
Orchids, finches, late morning dew
Seated outside in the shade I watch
My tabby lolling in a dirt patch near
The grasses, rolling and pawing at
Insects; then suddenly preening –
Then suddenly; napping
The goldy feline queen has decided today
That the screen porch is close enough
To the real outdoors –
She languishes on the padded wicker while
I entertain my morning guest –
The southern breeze
She is seated next to me, wearing light blue
Facing the direction from which she came
In a chair soon destined for the storage barn
We discuss any subject that suits the day –
Ferns in the garden, slowing maples
Gray silver dollar packets of seeds
Empty feeders hang nearby
The birds are all quiet just now
Babies have fledged and now they nest
Exhausted, just as the sun is flagging
Soon the earth will pitch that sun
Across the horizon each day
A lazy bright stone skipped across a graying pond
Frow where my companion once came
My wife will fill the feeders soon enough
Marching through a knee deep snow –
I will watch her fulfill this labor of love
From the finch and orchid bay window
Facing the shadowy southland
Contemplating a new winter poem
On the tail of yesterday’s entry, I continued to dig deeper into the lives of Archy, Mehitabel, and Don Marquis. I downloaded a book of poetry written by D.M. – for free! The poetry is quite good, especially when you keep in mind the era from which it was written.
Here for your enjoyment is Sam Waterston reading a delightful poem by Don Marquis, regarding an assignment that Archy (the typing cockroach) was covering. ~TH~
Our beautiful Blasco Library in Erie PA (featured in this months The Atlantic magazine) will be hosting an event tomorrow night, a one-man show by Gale McNeeley presenting poems, songs and essays of Don Marquis, the creator of the characters Archy & Mehitabel.
Don Marquis wrote for the The Evening Sun newspaper and created the character of Archy in 1916. Archy is a cockroach who types by jumping from one key to the next.
This era fascinates me because so many new technologies were being introduced to more and more homes and businesses. Automobiles, telephones, phonographs, electricity, and of course – the typewriter. These ideas seem quaint to us now, but one hundred years ago these were awe inspiring technologies.
If you live in (or near) Erie PA, I hope you’ll plan to attend this free event. I know I’ll be there! ~TH~
How to Neutralize Haters: E.E. Cummings, Creative Courage, and the Importance of Protecting the Artist’s Right to Challenge the Status Quo
Greetings fellow writers, poets, artists —
A truncated, self replicating poem that I created, based on a cocktail napkin that inspired a little bit of art. You yourself should try a little bit of art.
… orbs have taken to the skies and time has predicted itself to fly and …
I don’t overly concern myself with whether or not we dream in color. Frankly, when I have a disturbing dream, my focus is not on the tint.
Today I completed a poem that describes a (portion of a) dream/nightmare I had last night.
Describing dreams is like attempting to capture smoke with gardening gloves on. You’re constantly convinced that if you could just take off the gloves – victory! Your own dreams haunt you best, because they are yours. If you describe your nightmare as Mickey Mouse chasing you I would assume that you’re Goofy.
Further, I posit that when you dream of people you know, you often dream of a percentage of them. In my case, my wife appeared before me, yet the visceral and emotional effect on my mind was that she was only about 80% my wife – the other 20% being unrecognizable (and scary). Later I recognized others in varying degrees of recognizability [CAUTION: MADE-UP-WORD].
I’m not interested in what dreams “mean” because I have settled into the comfortable belief that dreams are your brains way of shaking five Yahtzee dice in a cup while murmuring, “Thank GOD he’s finally asleep so we can play!” Still, the front end of this dream shook me, and I wanted my poem to shake you too. I hope it does. Mmwa-ha-ha-hah-HA!