Epitaph
The first time I died, I walked my ways;
I followed the file of limping days.
I held me tall, with my head flung up,
But I dared not look on the new moon's cup.
I dared not look on the sweet young rain,
And between my ribs was a gleaming pain.
The next time I died, they laid me deep.
They spoke worn words to hallow my sleep.
They tossed me petals, they wreathed me fern,
They weighted me down with a marble urn.
And I lie here warm, and I lie here dry,
And watch the worms slip by, slip by.
Fell in love with Dorothy some years back, when I had an hourlong daily commute. Read her collected works at stoplights and, in winter, while warming up the car. Love.
ReplyDeleteI wish I could drink like her. No, really.
ReplyDeleteI highly highly highly highly HIGHLY recommend one of my favorite books of all time, What Fresh Hell is This? by Marion Meade, a bio of Parker. The best biography I've ever read (I prefer them to novels), and it covers the Jazz Age to boot. It's also the best recounting of a lifelong love story (Parker and Robert Benchley, though they weren't lovers). It makes no attempt to varnish the more tawdry aspects of Parker's life, such as the time she was so sloshed she screwed a guy on his sofa in front of his friends. One of her best sayings was "I'm too fucking busy - and vice-versa."
ReplyDeleteI'll keep an eye out for that book. She fascinates me. I thought she and Benchley had a brief carnal affair, altho that might have ruined a beautiful friendship. She sounded like a female Hunter Thompson, whom I tried to drink like and almost killed myself doing so.
ReplyDeleteI'm planning to re-read this book (probably 3rd or 4th time) after I finish Notes on a Scandal by Zoe Heller. (Also a superb movie with Judi Dench and Cate Blanchett).
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