Tag Archives: Dorothy Parker

Like A Fish Needs A Bicycle…Friday Fictioneers

The train pulled into Heidelberg Hauptbahnhof. The knot in her stomach was now tied around her throat. She couldn’t breathe. Some huge, cosmic vacuum cleaner had sucked out all the air. There was nothing left. Anonymous, invisible, lost without being lost, her heart was churning like a clunky washing machine. Her mind was detergent. How could she fall in love now? With Europe at her feet, she needed a man like a fish needs a bicycle

“Mark, I’m in Heidelberg. I..I..I.”

Clunk. The coins devoured with gluttonous greed, he was gone.

Humph, turns out fish might need bicycles, after all!

……

This has been another contribution to Friday Fictioneers hosted by Rochelle Wishoff-Fields. This weeks photo prompt was kindly provided by © J Hardy Carroll. 

P- Dorothy Parker Writes to the Pollicle Dogs #atozchallenge.

Dear Pollicle Dogs,

Please thank your mother for  her letter. She is very generous with her words but should consider that just as: “Brevity is the soul of lingerie”, writers also need to be brief.

We have reconvened the  Algonquin Round Table and there’s been much discussion over your protests to  TS Eliot. Indeed, Misty and I thoroughly concur that Dogs the Musical is an absolute must.

Of course, Misty must have a leading role and I insist that the pair of you retreat to the Salon. Lady, in particular, has a certain scruffy “je ne sais quoi”, which needs IMMEDIATE attention!

Bilbo, if you are serious about performing, baths, brushing and hairdryers are de rigeur. No further complaints, or you will be “replaced”!

Moreover, there are two further rules you’ll have to abide: “No balls on stage” and “No rolling in dead animals”.

Lady, I am appalled! Indeed, you are quite the “ruff ruff”, NOT a Lady!!

While that such conduct might be appealing in canine society, it’s not how you win friends and influence PEOPLE!

 

 

Meanwhile, here is a poem I wrote to my beloved Misty:

Verse For A Certain Dog

Such glorious faith as fills your limpid eyes,
Dear little friend of mine, I never knew.
All-innocent are you, and yet all-wise.
(For Heaven’s sake, stop worrying that shoe!)
You look about, and all you see is fair;
This mighty globe was made for you alone.
Of all the thunderous ages, you’re the heir.
(Get off the pillow with that dirty bone!)

A skeptic world you face with steady gaze;
High in young pride you hold your noble head,
Gayly you meet the rush of roaring days.
(Must you eat puppy biscuit on the bed?)
Lancelike your courage, gleaming swift and strong,
Yours the white rapture of a winged soul,
Yours is a spirit like a Mayday song.
(God help you, if you break the goldfish bowl!)

“Whatever is, is good” – your gracious creed.
You wear your joy of living like a crown.
Love lights your simplest act, your every deed.
(Drop it, I tell you- put that kitten down!)
You are God’s kindliest gift of all – a friend.
Your shining loyalty unflecked by doubt,
You ask but leave to follow to the end.
(Couldn’t you wait until I took you out?)

Dorothy Parker

Wait by the phone! I’ll be in touch my lovelies!

Best wishes,

Dorothy

Pollicle dogs was coined by TS Eliot after his niece couldn’t say “poor little dogs”.

 

P-Dorothy Parker: Letters to Dead Poets.

Epitaph: Excuse my dust.

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

Dear Dorothy,

As accustomed as I am to writing letters to dead poets, as the Queen of Wit, you are in a different league. So, before I disgrace myself, I’m sharpening my wit and praying the lead doesn’t break. I’m sure you were never stuck for words like this “bear of little brain”. Or, perhaps I should rephrase that. You weren’t a fan of AA Milne or: The House at Pooh Corner.

Since we don’t have a time machine, we’re manually rewinding the clock back to 1988, which I guess, for you, actually means putting the clock forward. Oh dear! This is already sounding complicated and way too technical for me. So, I hope one or both of us doesn’t get lost and end up going the wrong way. I’ve heard people joke about losing bits of themselves in a time machine and I’d like to arrive in one piece.

Our journey began at a friend’s 21st when I glanced across the room and spotted “the surfer” over the top of the canopy. Being rather petite yourself, you’d understand my experience in reverse. I am as tall as you are short, but he was even taller and as shallow as it sounds, it was true love. Obviously, I’d swallowed too much Keats and had my rosy-coloured glasses super-glued in place. However, we talked and talked and goodness knows what we talked about but we felt simpatico, soul mates. I can’t remember what happened after that but I wrote my number in red lipstick on a napkin as I didn’t have a pen.

Dorothy ParkerII

Then, the Great Wait began and that’s when I turned to you for support reading: A Telephone Call:

“PLEASE, God, let him telephone me now. Dear God, let him call me now. I won’t ask anything else of You, truly I won’t. It isn’t very much to ask. It would be so little to You, God, such a little, little thing. Only let him telephone now. Please, God. Please, please, please.[1]

Oh how I related to that and how you wrangled and bargained with God for a few pages until a fresh horror emerges:

“Are You punishing me, God, because I’ve been bad? Are You angry with me because I did that? Oh, but, God, there are so many bad people –You could not be hard only to me. And it wasn’t very bad; it couldn’t have been bad. We didn’t hurt anybody, God. Things are only bad when they hurt people. We didn’t hurt one single soul; You know that. You know it wasn’t bad, don’t You, God? So won’t You let him telephone me now?

If he doesn’t telephone me, I’ll know God is angry with me. I’ll count five hundred by fives, and if he hasn’t called me then, I will know God isn’t going to help me, ever again. That will be the sign. Five, ten, fifteen, twenty, twenty-five, thirty, thirty-five, forty, forty-five, fifty, fifty-five. . . It was bad. I knew it was bad. All right, God, send me to hell. You think You’re frightening me with Your hell, don’t You? You think. Your hell is worse than mine….

I mustn’t. I mustn’t, I mustn’t. Oh, God, please don’t let me telephone him. Please keep me from doing that. I know, God, just as well as You do, that if he were worried about me, he’d telephone no matter where he was or how many people there were around him. Please make me know that, God. I don’t ask YOU to make it easy for me–You can’t do that, for all that You could make a world. Only let me know it, God. Don’t let me go on hoping. Don’t let me say comforting things to myself. Please don’t let me hope, dear God. Please don’t.

I won’t telephone him. I’ll never telephone him again as long as I live. He’ll rot in hell, before I’ll call him up. You don’t have to give me strength, God; I have it myself. If he wanted me, he could get me. He knows where I ram. He knows I’m waiting here. He’s so sure of me, so sure. I wonder why they hate you, as soon as they are sure of you. I should think it would be so sweet to be sure.”

Well, Dorothy, I have no idea how this drama plays out anymore.  I doubt anybody waits for anyone to call in these days of instant everything. Either you’re in or you’re out and no endless charades.

While I was waiting for the phone to ring or more likely frantically trying to foil the College switchboard and actually make it through, I kept reading. You were my partner in crime:

Violin rose

One Perfect Rose.

“One Perfect Rose”

A single flow’r he sent me, since we met.
All tenderly his messenger he chose;
Deep-hearted, pure, with scented dew still wet–
One perfect rose.

I knew the language of the floweret;
“My fragile leaves,” it said, “his heart enclose.”
Love long has taken for his amulet
One perfect rose.

Why is it no one ever sent me yet
One perfect limousine, do you suppose?
Ah no, it’s always just my luck to get
One perfect rose.

Dorothy Parker.

Eventually, he called. My relief was short-lived. Swapping one angst for another, I was all but plucking the petals off daisies: “He loves me”, “He loves me not”. Eventually, after what must have been months of intrigue, friends of mine finally bailed him up: “Tell us what you think of Rowena. We want to know.” Being direct had never been my thing but confronting him while we were all staying at my parent’s beach house, which was in every respect like being stuck in a lift, was terrible. I can’t even remember what he said. Put on the spot, he mumbled something and was just as embarrassed as me. Mind you, we both deserved it. Neither of us could talk straight. Somehow, the answer wasn’t what I’d hoped. While technically speaking, you can’t be dumped if you’ve never been an item, but try telling that to my broken heart.

Anyway, how short-sighted of me. I should have known it would never work out:

News Item

Men seldom make passes

At girls who wear glasses.

 Dorothy Parker First printed in New York World, 16 August 1925.

In the aftermath, I remember walking up Glebe Point Road on my way to university. Through my abject sorrow, I spotted a bunch of white carnations with blood red lines wiggling through their petals. Never one to repress my anguish, the poem in me moved into action:

Your razor-eyes

carved weeping streams

through the heart of

a white carnation.

-Rowena 1989.

What an “Ode to Joy”! Of course, you knew all about this too:

Resumé 

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

A Very Short Song

Once, when I was young and true,
Someone left me sad-
Broke my brittle heart in two;
And that is very bad.

Love is for unlucky folk,
Love is but a curse.
Once there was a heart I broke;
And that, I think, is worse.

Dorothy Parker

Scan10439

Is it just me? Or, do I look like a young Dorothy Parker. Rowena 1989 in my student terrace aged 20.

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

So, as much as I might think I’d like to be 21 again, after this trip down memory lane, once was enough! Please God, NEVER send me back! I’m quite happy where I am.

family portrait

Family Photo 2016.

At the same time, my kids are now standing on the cusp of all of this. The tsunami is coming but how on earth will they ever learn to surf?Indeed, they might be better off building castles on the beach. Yet:

“ ‘Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.”

-Alfred Lord Tennyson

Best wishes,

Rowena

PS: A woman mightn’t NEED a man like a fish needs a bicycle, but it can be a choice. My choice!

Dorothy Parker oscar-wilde

By Dorthy Parker.

References

Dorothy Parker: The Penguin Dorothy Parker, 1987.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

[1] Dorothy Parker: The Penguin Dorothy Parker, Penguin Books, 1987 p. 119.

Romeo! Romeo! The Quest for Love & Reflections on The Rose.

“What’s in a name? That which we call a rose
By any other name would smell as sweet.”

Shakespeare: Romeo and Juliet (II, ii, 1-2)

In case you’ve just joined me, I am participating in the Blogging A-Z April Challenge.  where we write about a different letter of the alphabet every day, except Sunday.Today, we’re up to the letter R and starting approach the downward run. Although I don’t really have a set theme as such, I’m loosely writing about my favourite things.So for R, I will be taking you on a journey through the rose poems, which I found on this roller coaster journey of love, rejection, joy and angst.

Like most of us,  my very first rose poem was chanted in childhood and written in autograph books:

Roses are red,

violets are blue

sugar is sweet

and so are you!

The very nature of the rose perfectly reflects love’s passion and its heartache…its Jekyll and Hyde. A budding red rose symbolises new love with it’s incredible passionate intensity and it’s elegant, fragrant petals. Yet, just as love isn’t pure pleasure, neither is the rose. Every rose has it’s painfully sharp thorns…representing love’s heartache.

“The optimist sees the rose and not its thorns; the pessimist stares at the thorns, oblivious to the rose.”

― Kahlil Gibran

Roses, violin serenades...such is love!

Roses, violin serenades…such is love! Photo: Rowena.

Before I met my husband, I was on a determined mission to find Mr Right. This intense and challenging roller coaster ride was reflected in the greatest symbol of love…the rose. Whether I was basking in love’s giddy heights or more than likely,  sinking into its unending depths, there was a rose poem for every occasion. In the true spirit of a poetry-writing, angst-ridden youth in the days before you could just  summon Google, I transcribed these poems into an exercise book and absorbed them over and over again through osmosis. There is nothing like an angst-ridden poem to provide catharsis for the soul.

The Rose,

The Rose, “Little Prince”, St Exupery.

When love was going well, there was Robbie Burns:

My Love is Like A Red, Red Rose

Robert Burns

O my Luve’s like a red, red rose
That’s newly sprung in June;
O my Luve’s like the melodie
That’s sweetly play’d in tune.

As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
So deep in luve am I:
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
Till a’ the seas gang dry:

Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi’ the sun:
I will luve thee still, my dear,
While the sands o’ life shall run.

And fare thee well, my only Luve
And fare thee well, a while!
And I will come again, my Luve,
Tho’ it were ten thousand mile.

Salvidor Dali,

Salvidor Dali, “Meditative Rose”, 1958.

In more recent times, I have discovered Rumi:

With the Beloved’s water of life, no illness remains
In the Beloved’s rose garden of union, no thorn remains.
They say there is a window from one heart to another
How can there be a window where no wall remains?

Rumi From Thief of Sleep translated by Shahram Shiva

The Little Prince watering his rose.

The Little Prince watering his rose.“The thorns– what use are they?”

Like anyone who has experienced love’s sting, St Exupery’s Little Prince also wondered why roses have thorns:

“The little prince never let go of a question, once he had asked it. As for me, I was upset over that bolt. And I answered with the first thing that came into my head:

“The thorns are of no use at all. Flowers have thorns just for spite!”

Antoine de St Exupery: The Little Prince.

When love went wrong, I turned to William Blake’s scathing attack in The Sick Rose and John Keats Ode to Melancholy:

The Sick Rose

O Rose thou art sick.
The invisible worm,
That flies in the night
In the howling storm:
Has found out thy bed
Of crimson joy:
And his dark secret love
Does thy life destroy.

By William Blake

POrtrait of poet John Keat by Severn, 1819.

Portrait of poet John Keat by Severn, 1819

Ode on Melancholy (an excerpt)

John Keats

But when the melancholy fit shall fall
       Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud,
That fosters the droop-headed flowers all,
       And hides the green hill in an April shroud;
Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose,
       Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave,
               Or on the wealth of globed peonies;
Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows,
       Emprison her soft hand, and let her rave,
               And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes.
While the red rose first comes to mind, then there is the yellow rose, symbolising jealousy.
I photographed this gorgeous yellow rose, the symbol for jealousy, at the home of artist Hans Heysen, The Cedars, Hahndorf, South Australia. Both Hans and his daughter Nora created incredible rose portraits.

I photographed this gorgeous yellow rose, the symbol for jealousy, at the home of artist Hans Heysen, The Cedars, Hahndorf, South Australia. Both Hans and his daughter Nora created incredible rose portraits.Photo: Rowena

My Pretty Rose Tree

William Blake

A flower was offered to me,
Such a flower as May never bore;
But I said ‘I’ve a pretty rose tree,’
And I passed the sweet flower o’er.

Then I went to my pretty rose tree,
To tend her by day and by night;
But my rose turned away with jealousy,
And her thorns were my only delight.

Dorothy Parker

Dorothy Parker

When I wanted to appreciate the humour is love, there was Dorothy Parker’s: One Perfect Rose:

One Perfect Rose

A single flow’r he sent me, since we met.
All tenderly his messenger he chose;
Deep-hearted, pure, with scented dew still wet –
One perfect rose.

I knew the language of the floweret;
‘My fragile leaves,’ it said, ‘his heart enclose.’
Love long has taken for his amulet
One perfect rose.

Why is it no one ever sent me yet
One perfect limousine, do you suppose?
Ah no, it’s always just my luck to get
One perfect rose.

Dorothy Parker

Then, alas, there is the death of the rose, as expressed by Elizabeth Barrett Browning:

A Dead Rose

Elizabeth Barrett Browning

O Rose! who dares to name thee?
No longer roseate now, nor soft, nor sweet;
But pale, and hard, and dry, as stubble-wheat,—
Kept seven years in a drawer—thy titles shame thee.

The breeze that used to blow thee
Between the hedgerow thorns, and take away
An odour up the lane to last all day,—
If breathing now,—unsweetened would forego thee.

The sun that used to smite thee,
And mix his glory in thy gorgeous urn,
Till beam appeared to bloom, and flower to burn,—
If shining now,—with not a hue would light thee.

The dew that used to wet thee,
And, white first, grow incarnadined, because
It lay upon thee where the crimson was,—
If dropping now,—would darken where it met thee.

The fly that lit upon thee,
To stretch the tendrils of its tiny feet,
Along thy leaf’s pure edges, after heat,—
If lighting now,—would coldly overrun thee.

The bee that once did suck thee,
And build thy perfumed ambers up his hive,
And swoon in thee for joy, till scarce alive,—
If passing now,—would blindly overlook thee.

The heart doth recognise thee,
Alone, alone! The heart doth smell thee sweet,
Doth view thee fair, doth judge thee most complete,—
Though seeing now those changes that disguise thee.

Yes, and the heart doth owe thee
More love, dead rose! than to such roses bold
As Julia wears at dances, smiling cold!—
Lie still upon this heart—which breaks below thee!

“Did you hear about the rose that grew from a crack in the concrete? Proving nature’s laws wrong, it learned to walk without having feet. Funny, it seems to by keeping it’s dreams; it learned to breathe fresh air. Long live the rose that grew from concrete when no one else even cared. You see you wouldn’t ask why the rose that grew from the concrete had damaged petals. On the contrary, we would all celebrate its tenacity. We would all love it’s will to reach the sun. Well, we are the rose – this is the concrete – and these are my damaged petals.”

-Tupac Shakur

Unforgettable: Bette Midler: The Rose.

Unforgettable: Bette Midler: The Rose.

However, as much as I love my poetry, who can go passed one of the most loved songs of our time: The Rose:. Once I’d finally found my Romeo, a friend of ours gave a beautiful rendition at our wedding. Here’s the Bette Midler & Ms Judd: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M5q0KmjU0Qk

Do you know any good rose poems to contribute?

How are you going with the Blogging A-Z April challenge? I’ve been trying to read as many other blogs as I can but it’s all getting challenging. I planning to do some catch up after the challenge is over and the writing load has hopefully cut back.

xx Rowena