Dorothy Parker

(22 August 1893 - 7 June 1967 / Long Branch / New Jersey)

Comments about Dorothy Parker

  • S B (5/5/2014 5:51:00 PM)

    short and sweet poems are brilliant by her!

    18 person liked.
    13 person did not like.
  • R C (2/21/2013 11:05:00 PM)

    My heart soars when I hear dottie [3

  • Pearlsof Poetry (5/19/2012 1:28:00 AM)

    It’s cool how you can create so many different poems and sentences with just a few words. Brillant post!

    But i Loved this poem more -
    http: //pearlsofpoetry.tk/babys-world/

  • Fred Babbin (12/9/2009 1:05:00 PM)

    Dorothy Parker rings my bell - too loud and too clear.

  • p.a. noushad p.a. noushad (7/11/2008 4:51:00 AM)

    beautiful is your creation.

  • Rosa Jamali (6/1/2008 2:18:00 PM)

    Simple, honest, sharp and friendly! It's so hard to create simplicity in poetry.Using colloquial language with a sharp sense of humour. It seems a little cruel, as she judges life.

  • Marisa Samuels (9/22/2006 4:45:00 PM)

    In Dorothy Parker's 'The Dark Girl's Rhyme', there is an error. It's 'folk of mud and flame', not 'folk of mud and name.' Every Dorothy Parker reference on the internet (that I have found) has the same error.

  • Rufina Moor (8/28/2005 6:46:00 PM)

    I adore Dorothy Parker!
    She is one of the most amazing writers and women, with her witty sense of humor and her sarcasm. I love her!

Best Poem of Dorothy Parker

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.

Read the full of One Perfect Rose

Transition

Too long and quickly have I lived to vow
The woe that stretches me shall never wane,
Too often seen the end of endless pain
To swear that peace no more shall cool my brow.
I know, I know- again the shriveled bough
Will burgeon sweetly in the gentle rain,
And these hard lands be quivering with grain-
I tell you only: it is Winter now.

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