The Great Mirror of Same-Sex Love - Poetry - 54. Dorothy Parker “to put it mildly”

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Dorothy Parker “to put it mildly”

 

 

Paths

 

I shall tread, another year.

Ways I walked with Grief,

Past the dry, ungarnered ear

And the brittle leaf.

 

I shall stand, a year apart.

Wondering, and shy,

Thinking, “Here she broke her heart;

Here she pled to die.”

 

I shall hear the pheasants call.

And the raucous geese;

Down these ways, another Fall,

I shall walk with Peace.

 

But the pretty path I trod

Hand-in-hand with Love –

Underfoot, the nascent sod.

Brave young boughs above.

 

And the stripes of ribbon grass

By the curling way –

I shall never dare to pass

To my dying day. [i]

 

 

 

Recurrence

 

We shall have our little day.

Take my hand and travel still

Round and round the little way,

Up and down the little hill.

 

It is good to love again;

Scan the renovated skies,

Dip and drive the idling pen,

Sweetly tint the paling lies.

 

Trace the dripping, piercèd heart,

Speak the fair, insistent verse,

Vow to God, and slip apart,

Little better, little worse.

 

Would we need not know before

How shall end this prettiness;

One of us must love the more,

One of us shall love the less.

 

Thus it is, and so it goes;

We shall have our day, my dear,

Where, unwilling, dies the rose

Buds the new, another year. [ii]

 

 

 

August

 

When my eyes are weeds,

And my lips are petals, spinning

Down the wind that has beginning

Where the crumpled beeches start

In a fringe of salty reeds;

When my arms are elder-bushes,

And the rangy lilac pushes

Upward, upward through my heart;

 

Summer, do your worst!

Light your tinsel moon, and call on

Your performing stars to fall on

Headlong through your paper sky;

Nevermore shall I be cursed

By a flushed and amorous slattern,

With her dusty laces’ pattern

Trailing, as she straggles by. [iii]

 

 

 

Spring Song

(in the expected manner)

 

Enter April, laughingly,

Blossoms in her tumbled hair,

High of heart, and fancy-free –

When was maiden half so fair?

Bright her eyes with easy tears,

Wanton-sweet, her smiles for men.

“Winter’s gone,” she cries, “and here’s

Spring again!”

 

When we loved, ‘twas April, too;

Madcap April – urged us on.

Just as she did, so did you –

Sighed, and smiled, and then were gone.

How she plied her pretty arts,

How she laughed and sparkled then!

April, make love in our hearts

Spring again! [iv]

 

 

 

Words of Comfort to be Scratched on a Mirror

 

Helen of Troy had a wandering glance;

Sappho’s restriction was only the sky;

Ninon was ever the chatter of France;

But oh, what a good girl am I! [v]

 

 

 

Lullaby

 

Sleep, pretty lady, the night is enfolding you,

Drift, and so lightly, on crystalline streams.

Wrapped in its perfumes, the darkness is holding you;

Starlight bespangles the way of your dreams.

Chorus the nightingales, wistfully amorous;

Blessedly quiet, the blare of the day.

All the sweet hours may your visions be glamorous –

Sleep, pretty lady, as long as you may.

 

Sleep, pretty lady, the night shall be still for you;

Silvered and silent, it watches your rest.

Each little breeze, in its eagerness, will for you

Murmur the melodies ancient and blest.

So in the midnight does happiness capture us;

Morning is dim with another day’s tears.

Give yourself sweetly to images rapturous –

Sleep, pretty lady, a couple of years.

 

Sleep, pretty lady, the world awaits day with you;

Girlish and golden, the slender young moon.

Grant the fond darkness its mystical way with you,

Morning returns to us ever too soon.

Roses unfold, in their loveliness, all for you;

Blossom the lilies for hope of your glance.

When you’re awake, all the men go and fall for you –

Sleep, pretty lady, and give me a chance. [vi]

 

 

 

 

Roundel

 

She’s passing fair; but so demure is she

So quiet is her gown, so smooth her hair,

That few there are who note her and agree

She’s passing fair.

 

Yet when was ever beauty held more rare

Than simple heart and maiden modesty?

What fostered charms with virtue could compare?

 

Alas, no lover ever stops to see;

The best that she is offered is the air.

Yet – if the passing mark is minus D[orothy] –

She’s passing fair. [vii]

 

 

 

A Certain Lady

 

Oh, I can smile for you, and tilt my head,

And drink your rushing words with eager lips,

And paint my mouth for you a fragrant red,

And trace your brows with tutored finger-tips.

When you rehearse your list of loves to me,

Oh, I can laugh and marvel, rapturous-eyed.

And you laugh back, nor can you ever see

The thousand little deaths my heart has died.

And you believe, so well I know my part,

That I am gay as morning, light as snow,

And all the straining things within my heart

You’ll never know.

 

Oh, I can laugh and listen, when we meet,

And you bring tales of fresh adventurings –

Of ladies delicately indiscreet,

Of lingering hands, and gently whispered things.

And you are pleased with me, and strive anew

To sing me sagas of your late delights.

Thus do you want me – marveling, gay, and true,

Nor do you see my staring eyes of nights.

And when, in search of novelty, you stray,

Oh, I can kiss you blithely as you go . . . .

And what goes on, my love, while you’re away,

You’ll never know. [viii]

 

 

 

The Burned Child

 

Love has had his way with me.

This my heart is torn and maimed

Since he took his play with me.

Cruel well the bow-boy aimed,

 

Shot, and saw the feathered shaft

Dripping bright and bitter red.

He that shrugged his wings and laughed –

Better had he left me dead.

 

Sweet, why do you plead me, then,

Who have bled so sore of that?

Could I bear it once again? . . .

Drop a hat, dear, drop a hat! [ix]

 

 

 

The Searched Soul

 

When I consider, pro and con,

What things my love is built upon –

A curly mouth; a sinewed wrist;

A questioning brow; a pretty twist

Of words as old and tired as sin;

A pointed ear; a cloven chin;

Long, tapered limbs; and slanted eyes

Not cold nor kind nor darkly wise –

When so I ponder, here apart,

What shallow boons suffice my heart,

What dust-bound trivia capture me,

I marvel at my normalcy. [x]

 

 

 

A Musical Comedy Thought

 

My heart is fairly melting at the thought of Julian Eltinge;

His vice verse, Vesta Tilley, too.

Our language is so dexterous, let us call them ambi-sexterous –

Why hasn’t this occurred before to you? [xi]

 

 

 

The Passionate Freudian to His Love

 

Only name the day, and we’ll fly away

In the face of old traditions,

To a sheltered spot, by the world forgot,

Where we’ll park our inhibitions.

Come and gaze in eyes where the lovelight lies

As it psychoanalyzes,

And when once you glean what your fantasies mean

Life will hold no more surprises.

When you’ve told your love what you’re thinking of

Things will be much more informal;

Through a sunlit land we’ll go hand-in-hand,

Drifting gently back to normal.

 

While the pale moon gleams, we will dream sweet dreams,

And I‘Il win your admiration,

For it’s only fair to admit I ‘m there

With a mean interpretation.

In the sunrise glow we will whisper low

Of the scenes our dreams have painted,

And when you’re advised what they symbolized

We’ll begin to feel acquainted.

So we’ll gaily float in a slumber boat

Where subconscious waves dash wildly;

In the stars’ soft light, we will say good-night—

And “good-night!” will put it mildly.

 

Our desires shall be from repressions free—

As it’s only right to treat them.

To your ego’s whims I will sing sweet hymns,

And ad libido repeat them.

With your hand in mine, idly we’ll recline

Amid bowers of neuroses,

While the sun seeks rest in the great red west

We will sit and match psychoses.

So come dwell a while on that distant isle

In the brilliant tropic weather;

Where a Freud in need is a Freud indeed,

We’ll be always Jung together. [xii]

 

 

 

Rondeau II

 

Give me a rose, cool-petaled, virgin white,

Pure as the morning, mystical as night;

Not bold gardenias, flaunting their expense

Like courtesans, in perfumed insolence,

Nor brazen orchids, feverishly bright.

 

Give me no hothouse violets, cold, polite,

With lengths of costly ribbon girdled tight—

Matrons, in corseted magnificence;

Give me a rose.

 

One girlish blossom proffer as your mite.

Ah, lovelier by far within my sight

Than rich exotics’ glamorous pretense

Is one shy rose, sweet in its diffidence.

And then besides, my love, the price is right;

Give me a rose. [xiii]

 

 

 

Rhyme of an Involuntary Violet

[Violet is period slang for

Gay man on the make]

 

 

When I ponder lovely ladies

Slipping sweetly down to Hades,

Hung and draped with glittering booty –

Am I distant, cold and snooty?

Though I know the price their pearls are

Am I holier than the girls are?

Though they’re lavish with their “Yes’s,”

Do I point, and shake my tresses?

No! I’m filled with awe and wonder.

I review my every blunder . . .

Do I have the skill to tease a

Guy for an Hispano-Suiza?

I can’t even get me taxis

Off to Sydneys, Abes, and Maxies!

Do the pretty things I utter

To the kings of eggs and butter

Gain me pearls as big as boulders,

Clattering, clanking round my shoulders,

Advertising, thus, their full worth?

No, my dear. Mine come from Woolworth.

Does my smile across a table

Win a cloak of Russian sable?

Baby, no. I’d have to kill a

Man to get a near-chinchilla.

Men that come on for conventions

Show me brotherly intentions;

Though my glance be fond and melting,

Do they ever start unbelting

With the gifts they give the others?

No! They tell me of their mothers,

To the baby’s pictures treat me,

Say they want the wife to meet me!

Gladly I’d be led to slaughter

Where the ermine flows like water,

When the gay white globes are lighted;

But I’ve never been invited!

So my summary, in fact, is

What an awful flop my act is! [xiv]

 

 

 

from MEN

A HATE SONG

 

I hate Men;

They irritate me. […]

 

III.

And then there are the Sensitive Souls

Who do interior decorating, for Art’s sake.

They always smell faintly of vanilla

And put drops of sandalwood on their cigarettes.

They are continually getting up costume balls

So that they can go

As something out of the “Arabian Nights.”

They give studio teas

Where people sit around on cushions

And wish they hadn’t come.

They look at a woman languorously, through half-closed eyes,

And tell her, in low, passionate tones,

What she ought to wear.

Color is everything to them – everything;

The wrong shade of purple

Gives them a nervous breakdown.

 

I hate Men;

They irritate me. [xv]

 

 

 

BOHEMIANS

A HATE SONG

 

I hate Bohemians;

They shatter my morale.

 

There are the Artists;

The Inventors of the Nude,

They are always gesticulating with their thumbs,

And sketching, with forks, on table cloths;

They point out all the different colors in a sunset

As if they were trying to sell it to you;

They are forever messing around with batik;

And hanging yellow tassels on things;

And stencilling everything within reach.

I do hope that Gibson never learns what they think of him:

It would simply break his heart.

Of course, they know that being hung in the Academy

Is just a matter of pull.

They say that James Montgomery Flagg may stoop to mere success,

But as for them,

Let them starve first!

Fair enough!

 

There are the Writers;

The Press Agents for Sex.

They are forever exposing their inmost souls,

Their “stuff” is always “brutally frank” –

Why, they’d just as soon tell you their favorite flower.

They find their fullest expression in free verse;

They call it that

Because they have to give it away.

They are extremely well read,

They can quote from their own works for hours –

Without a mistake.

 

They are always pulling manuscripts out of their pockets,

And asking you to tell them, honestly – is it too daring?

They would sit down

And write the Great American Novel

If they only could find a publisher Big Enough.

Oh, well –

Genius is an infinite capacity for giving pains.

 

There are the Actors;

They always refer to themselves as “Players.”

Whenever two or three of them are gathered together

Another little theatre comes into the world.

They are eternally leasing vacant kitchenettes

And presenting their own dramas – with Woolworth scenery.

Of course, there can be no real drama above Fourteenth Street.

If they even walked across Times Square

They’d feel that they had lost their amateur standing.

They ask you what you think of their technique,

And then wait for you to commit perjury.

They thank God that they never descended to commercialism;

They know that they’ll never be appreciated

They don’t know the half of it.

 

And then there are the Radicals;

The Table D’Hôte Bolsheviki.

They are always in revolt about something.

Nothing has been done yet that they can wholly approve of.

Their existence is just like Heaven –

There is neither marrying nor giving in marriage.

They are forever starting magazines

And letting the Postal Authorities put the finish to them.

 

I hate Bohemians;

They shatter my morale. [xvi]

 

 

 

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