I know something of making, and I’m here to tell you
If the world was made by some grand carpenter
Somewhere there’s a corner
To which all the error has been pushed
Some joint not quite square
Some depth not quite plumb
Some dark unknown fluke
Covered deftly with cosmic caulk
And one hell of a paint job
Something completely different. An homage to Ogden Nash.
How roly, how poly, how utterly holy
Was Cedric O’Brylan, the mad monk of Ireland
His greaves were all rusted, his courage untrusted
Yet onward he flung, though pelted with dung
Through jeers of derision, he ne’er rued his decision
To dive for the cellar, and brandy most stellar.
Though insults be piled up, and townspeople riled up,
With each loving quaff, more scorn would slough off.
Far above, the crowds jostle, increasingly hostile,
Below there is peace, no worries increase.
Deals, they may dazzle, and crowds, they may frazzle,
But Cedric downstairs has banished his cares.
I got my book of riffs,
My bebop hat
Stuffed on my head
What I lack is bread
I got the skinny pants
I drive my Mini past
The twilight boulevard
What I lack is gas, man
What I lack is class, man
The mojo ain’t workin’
The jerky aint jerkin’
What I lack is a clue
A cat
Is a cat
You got a problem
With that?
Dorothy Parker is, of course, famous for witticisms, short, incisive, and very quotable. One of my favorites is, “If you want to know what God thinks of money, just look at the people he gave it to.” But she was a fine poet as well, and along with her better-known light-hearted efforts were some very dark verses, so I’ve included two poems about love, one from each variety. I’ll let you decide which is the more serious.
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Oh, life is a glorious cycle of song,
A medley of extemporanea;
And love is a thing that can never go wrong;
And I am Marie of Roumania
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.
exiles child 