Proseman's Poem

Proseman's Poems

A GREEN BOUGH--William Faulkner-- Smith & Haas ($1.75).

Many a man fancies himself most in a role that would surprise his friends. Clowns are notoriously tragic actors. Often prose-writers break out into a poetic itch, and if the rash is compelling enough, even break quarantine and show themselves in public. Author Faulkner, with a prominent but still embattled reputation as a proseman, now comes forth with a small (72-page) book of poems. It is his second such venture (in 1924 he published The Marble Faun) and only deep-dyed Faulknerites will find it more fine than frenzied. His simultaneous debut last week as a cinema author was more impressive evidence of his versatility.

Much possessed by Death, like Elizabethan John Webster but not to such a pitch, Faulkner's poetic tone of voice is more reminiscent of other poets, notably A. E. Housman. than of his own nightmarishly poetic prose:

Still swings the murderer, bent of knees In a slightly strained repose, Nor feels the faint hand of the breeze: He now with Solomon all things knows: That, lastly, breath is to a man But to want and fret a span.

Sometimes he stoops to conquer rhymes in doggerel that only Tinpan Alley would applaud:

And ladies fair, why tears? why sighs?

There's still many a champion that'll

Feel the sharp goads of your eyes

As Roland did, in love and battle.

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