William Faulkner and the Red Crayon
Faulkner had this red crayon
And a novel he couldn’t handle.
Bloody thing took over his sense
Of sense, back and forth it went
Until the man was bent of mind
And spirit. He swayed onto a chair,
Swearing away, and gripped
The crayon, plunging the wax
To the wall: MONDAY< TUESDAY
and the weekend too. Bill Faulkner
Wrote the outline and looked again—
If he could order time, surely then
He could arrange imagination;
Wrangle the soldiers and symbols
And happenings into sentences,
Dense though they were, and fence
The things that needed it behind
The bars of the syntax. Enough!
He shouted, and the wall emerged
As paper, smitten with intention.