Poems from authors who usually write in prose

[Anonymous No.19068830]

>Faulkner
Her house is empty and her heart is old,
And filled with shades and echoes that deceive
No one save her, for still she tries to weave
With blind bent fingers, nets that cannot hold.
Once all men’s arms rose up to her, ‘tis told,
And hovered like white birds for her caress:
A crown she could have had to bind each tress
Of hair, and her sweet arms the Witches’ Gold.

Her mirrors know her witnesses, for there
She rose in dreams from other dreams that lent
Her softness as she stood, crowned with soft hair.
And with his bound heart and his young eyes bent
And blind, he feels her presence like shed scent,
Holding him body and life within its snare
>Joyce
Frail the white rose, and frail are
Her hands that gave,
Whose soul is sere, and paler
Than Time's wan wave.

Rose-frail and fair-- yet frailest,
A wonder wild
In gentle eyes thou veilest,
My blue-veined child.
>Fitzgerald
The warm fire.
The comfortable chairs.
The merry companions.
The stroke of twelve.
The wild suggestion.
The good sports.
The man who hasn't slept for weeks.
The people who have done it before.
The long anecdotes.
The best looking girl yawns.
The forced raillery.
The stroke of one.
The best looking girl goes to bed.
The stroke of two.
The empty pantry.
The lack of firewood.
The second best looking girl goes to bed.
The weather-beaten ones who don't.
The stroke of four.
The dozing off.
The amateur "life of the party."
The burglar scare.
The scornful cat.
The trying to impress the milkman.
The scorn of the milkman.
The lunatic feeling.
The chilly sun.
The stroke of six.
The walk in the garden.
The sneezing.
The early risers.
The volley of wit at you.
The feeble come back.
The tasteless breakfast.
The miserable day.
8 P. M.—Between the sheets.
>Hemingway
Soldiers never do die well;
Crosses mark the places—
Wooden crosses where they fell,
Stuck above their faces.
Soldiers pitch and cough and twitch—
All the world roars red and black;
Soldiers smother in a ditch,
Choking through the whole attack.

[Anonymous No.19068846]

>>19068830
I was the shadow of a waxwing slain etc.

[Anonymous No.19068889]

>>19068830
I love Joyce's poems

[Anonymous No.19068897]

>>19068889
that makes two of us

[Anonymous No.19069739]

Tan tin tin tan — the celesta hammers away. Here I turn off the light, and darkness drinks me in. I lie like one immured but still permitted to breathe. I lie like one to be crucified whom nobody will nail to the cross. I lie and wait.

I absorb sounds. My soul was a dry sponge, the metallic sounds of the celesta fill its crevices and canals. The soul swells and bloats, and I am immortal again.

That is why I request a Madonna.