I think In Parenthesis qualifies as a novel, certainly as much as Jean Toomer's Cane is. It's more prose than verse, meets novelistic requirements. The Anethamata was described by Jones as "a heap," which sounds more like a novel than a poem, though I see it as a poem.
Beckett's early poetry collection Echo's Bones is well worth reading, while his late poetry doesn't strike me as much. He won his first prize in 1930 for "Whoroscope," narrated by Descartes, still one of his best: http://lazenby.tumblr.com/post/3374062767/samuel-becketts-first-book-whoroscope-1930
What’s that? An egg? By the brother Boot it stinks fresh. Give it to Gillot.
Galileo how are you and his consecutive thirds! The vile old Copernican lead-swinging son of a sutler! We’re moving he said we’re off—Porca Madonna! the way a boatswain would be, or a sack-of-potatoey charging Pretender. That’s not moving, that’s moving.
no subject
Beckett's early poetry collection Echo's Bones is well worth reading, while his late poetry doesn't strike me as much. He won his first prize in 1930 for "Whoroscope," narrated by Descartes, still one of his best: http://lazenby.tumblr.com/post/3374062767/samuel-becketts-first-book-whoroscope-1930
What’s that?
An egg?
By the brother Boot it stinks fresh.
Give it to Gillot.
Galileo how are you
and his consecutive thirds!
The vile old Copernican lead-swinging son of a sutler!
We’re moving he said we’re off—Porca Madonna!
the way a boatswain would be, or a sack-of-potatoey charging Pretender.
That’s not moving, that’s moving.