Saturday, July 21, 2012

Happy Birthday Ernest Hemingway !

Ernest Miller Hemingway
Today is the birthday of an American author and journalist Ernest Miller Hemingway. Ernest Hemingway's (July 21, 1899 – July 2, 1961) economical and understated style had a strong influence on 20th-century fiction, while his life of adventure and his public image influenced later generations. Hemingway won the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1954. He published seven novels, six short story collections and two non-fiction works. Three novels, four collections of short stories and three non-fiction works were published posthumously. Many of these are considered classics of American literature. Presenting some poems : Being Poet
Poetry
So now,
Losing the three last night,
Taking them back today,
Dripping and dark the woods . . . 

Poem

The only man I ever loved
Said good bye
And went away
He was killed in Picardy
On a sunny day. 

I'm Off'n Wild Wimmen

I'm off'n wild wimmen
An Cognac
An Sinnin'
For I'm in loOOOOOOOve. 

Killed Paive--July 8--1918

Desire and
All the sweet pulsing aches
And gentle hurtings
That were you,
Are gone into the sullen dark.
Now in the night you come unsmiling
To lie with me
A dull, cold, rigid bayonet
On my hot-swollen, throbbing soul. 

Chapter Heading

For we have thought the larger thoughts 
And gone the shorter way. 
And we have danced to devil's tunes, 
Shivering home to pray; 
To serve one master in the night, 
Another in the day. 

Captives

Some came in chains
Unrepentant but tired.
Too tired but to stumble.
Thinking and hating were finished
Thinking and fighting were finished
Retreating and hoping were finished.
Cures thus a long campaign,
Making death easy. 

Champs D'Honneur

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. 

Along With Youth

A porcupine skin, 
Stiff with bad tanning, 
It must have ended somewhere. 
Stuffed horned owl 
Pompous 
Yellow eyed; 
Chuck-wills-widow on a biased twig 
Sooted with dust. 
Piles of old magazines, 
Drawers of boy's letters 
And the line of love 
They must have ended somewhere. 
Yesterday's Tribune is gone 
Along with youth 
And the canoe that went to pieces on the beach 
The year of the big storm 
When the hotel burned down 
At Seney, Michigan. 

Advice To A Son

Never trust a white man,
Never kill a Jew,
Never sign a contract,
Never rent a pew.
Don't enlist in armies;
Nor marry many wives;
Never write for magazines;
Never scratch your hives.
Always put paper on the seat,
Don't believe in wars,
Keep yourself both clean and neat,
Never marry whores.
Never pay a blackmailer,
Never go to law,
Never trust a publisher,
Or you'll sleep on straw.
All your friends will leave you
All your friends will die
So lead a clean and wholesome life
And join them in the sky. 

Riparto D'Assalto

Drummed their boots on the camion floor,
Hob-nailed boots on the camion floor.
Sergeants stiff,
Corporals sore.
Lieutenant thought of a Mestre whore -
Warm and soft and sleepy whore,
Cozy, warm and lovely whore;
Damned cold, bitter, rotten ride,
Winding road up the Grappa side.
Arditi on benches stiff and cold,
Pride of their country stiff and cold,
Bristly faces, dirty hides -
Infantry marches, Arditi rides.
Grey, cold, bitter, sullen ride -
To splintered pines on the Grappa side
At Asalone, where the truck-load died. 

Montparnasse

There are never any suicides in the quarter among people one knows
No successful suicides.
A Chinese boy kills himself and is dead.
(they continue to place his mail in the letter rack at the Dome)
A Norwegian boy kills himself and is dead.
(no one knows where the other Norwegian boy has gone)
They find a model dead
alone in bed and very dead.
(it made almost unbearable trouble for the concierge)
Sweet oil, the white of eggs, mustard and water, soap suds
and stomach pumps rescue the people one knows.
Every afternoon the people one knows can be found at the café.