Best Ernest Hemingway Poems
With loaded gun...he gave up!
the stillborn baby, gone- then mother too;
wrapped arms 'round my unborn child.
we go to great lengths to win ~ and in the end find that we've won nothing
he persevered through struggle conquering his courage and compassion
The journey back
The trail
An Author of books
“FOR WHOM THE BELLS TOLL” my look
From Miami to Key West
The whom being I
4 hour venture to tour Ernest Hemingway’s house in Key West, Florida
Through his writings encouraged me to write
Extending my own words into theory
Mr. Hemingway being the vision of what words can be, and illustrating thoughts
The whom being can
The glance and grasp
I did a critical analysis of my College English 101 Professor’s Assigned I chose “FOR WHOM THE BELLS TOLL”
I got an A for my analysis of the book
Ernest Hemingway was an impact
His words bringing fact
His accomplishments are hard to keep track
Ernest Hemingway write up
Analysis complete.
“Writing is about reality, about what men do, not what they imagine in some velvet-lined parlor,” Hemingway grumbled, his brow furrowed over a tumbler of gin.
Here is a fictional dialogue:
Wilde raised a manicured hand. “Reality? It's a dreary affair, vastly overrated. The charming veil of fiction is preferred, where one can truly be one's self.”
“Fiction is a lie that makes you believe the truth,” Hemingway retorted, gripping the glass tighter. “Your writing is all flourish, no bone, no muscle."
“And yours, Mr. Hemingway, is all bone and no soul,” Wilde countered with a saccharine smile. "You mistake brevity for depth, as if a skeleton could ever be as beautiful as a fully dressed man."
"A skeleton has truth," Hemingway growled, leaning in, "your pretty words are just a mask for fear."
"And your 'truth', Ernest, is merely the art of leaving out the interesting parts," Wilde said, a sharp glint in his eye. "You write to live, I live to write beautifully, "you write as if every verb were a boxing match and every adjective a wasted breath,” Oscar began, a languid hand gesturing toward a volume on the shelf. “Your prose is like a very long, very dull telegram."
Hemingway set down his glass heavily. “Better a telegram with true words, Oscar, than a cathedral of lies and cheap paradoxes. You talk about style, but I write about what is real: clean, strong sentences about life and death and hunger in a true place.”
Wilde smiled, a flash of emerald silk at his cuff. “Life, my dear Ernest, is far too important a thing ever to talk seriously about."
"And art," Hemingway retorted, his voice low and hard, "is knowing when to stop talking and when to tell the truth with one clean stroke, not twenty just for the sound of them."
"Truth is rarely pure and never smple," Oscar murmured, adjusting a flower in his lapel. "Your heroes, they are all the same, mute men with silent anguish. You mistake a lack of vocabulary for a depth of soul."
Ernest Hemingway:
live it to write about it;
book is loyal friend
He drank with the men
who would later deny knowing his name.
That is the way of the world.
A man learns it slowly,
like learning winter from the sea.
There were nights of bread and cheap wine,
hands on shoulders,
promises spoken low as prayers.
They called him brother,
And she was their sister
They meant it then.
Or maybe they only meant the warmth,
the full glass,
the use of him.
Loyalty is quiet.
It does not pound its chest.
It stays when the room grows cold
and the money is gone.
Betrayal speaks more.
It laughs too loudly.
It explains itself.
A good dog knows his master.
A good man knows his friends
by how they leave.
One left over fear.
One for money.
One because crowds are easier
than conscience.
The betrayed man said little about it.
There is no poetry in begging people to stay.
A man keeps moving.
He fishes.
He lights another cigarette.
He watches the dark water
and understands something at last:
that loyalty is rarer than courage,
and betrayal comes easiest
to those already weak inside.
Still, he poured another drink
for the next stranger who sat beside him.
Because even after betrayal,
a man must live
as though loyalty still exists somewhere
in this tired world.
Novelist pinnacle
Love and War
Situations and circumstances
Chapters upon chapters embrace
Diabolical thoughts
Words illustrating themselves
Sentences acquainting
For whom, what and why
Journeying into adventure
Emotions interlock
Actions through responses
The Sun that never sets
Nighjts that are uncertain
Heart with thorns
Storms that bring clarity
Eyes observed
Mind settling deep into thought
What tomorrow brings
Novelist blend
Motion of Ernest Hemingway.