All her hours were yellow sands,
 Blown in foolish whorls and tassels;
 Slipping warmly through her hands;
 Patted into little castles.

 Shiny day on shiny day
 Tumbled in a rainbow clutter,
 As she flipped them all away,
 Sent them spinning down the gutter.

 Leave for her a red young rose,
 Go your way, and save your pity;
 She is happy, for she knows
 That her dust is very pretty.

Dorothy Parker at her vicious best - I don’t know whether to laugh, wince or simply admire the effortless skill with which she plucks just the right word or phrase out of thin air, time and again. The second verse, in particular, is a lovely blend of imagery and versification, both stamped with Parker’s unique touch.

It is perhaps that distinctive style that I most like Parker for - indeed, of all the ‘humorous’ poets I am familiar with, she is perhaps the one most greatly disserviced by the label. I’ve said a bit about Parker’s style in the past (see the links), but neglected to mention the sheer depth of her insight into humanity (even more evident in her short stories, incidentally), or her deft use of sarcasm and absurdity. Well, consider them mentioned <g>.

Links

We’ve run two of Parker’s poems in the past: poem #150, poem #192.

— Martin