The Poetry of e. e. cummings

Ah. Home at last. :) Thanks, Nick! Here is my personal favorite:

And he used upper and lower case!

Yes, but not in a conventional manner. Thank god. :)

(for you, and i and us) (july 9th 1998) i carry your heart with me(i carry it in my heart)i am never without it(anywhere i go you go, my dear;and whatever is done by only me is your doing,my darling) i fear no fate(for you are fate, my sweet)i want no world(for beautiful you are my world, my true) and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant and whatever a sun will always sing is you here is the deepest secret nobody knows (here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows higher than soul can hope or mind can hide) and this is the wonder thats keeping the stars apart i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart) - e.e cummings

damn paula jane... (damn) it is beautiful (that's not one of the hundred is it?) it is perfect... okay... give me a couple of minutes...

ummm... the same- (je, tu, nous) (july 9th 1998) stand with your lover on the ending earth- and while a(huge which by which huger than huge)whoing sea leaps to greenly hurl snow suppose we could not love,dear;imagine ourselves like living neither nor dead these (or many thousand hearts which don't and dream or many million minds which sleep and move) blind sands,at pitiless the mercy of time time time time time -how fortunate are you and i,whose home is timelessness:we who have wandered down from fragrant mountains of eternal now to frolic in such mysteries as birth and death a day(or maybe even less) - e. e. cummings

(for the both of you) (days being immaterial and all) Thy fingers make early flowers of all things. thy hair mostly the hours love: a smoothness which sings,saying (though love be a day) do not fear,we will go amaying. thy whitest feet are crisply straying. Always thy moist eyes are at kisses playing, whose strangness much says;singing (though love be a day) for which girl art thou flowers bringing? To be thy lips is a sweet thing and small. Death,Thee i call rich beyond wishing if this thou catch, else missing. (though love be a day and life be nothing,it shall not stop kissing).

stacey, thank you... that was beautiful, indeed...

ooh, i like that one. beautiful poem. thank you, stacey, for posting it.

oh, nearly forgot to mention, the poem you posted, charlotte. i really like it. i havent read it before, its -and i say this so often, but know i mean it each time- beautiful. ive only just recently discovered cummings for myself and i really love him. thanks for posting it.

here's the bit on keats i was telling you about earlier (thought i'd POSTED it earlier... must've screwed it up somehow... that may've been about the time i was reading your poem (YOUR poem) and spilling iced tea all over my frigging keyboard... anyway, it is excellent, and true... and chilling sort of (esp. considering how... well, you know... how special each of them is...to us... and to everyone that loves poetry, i guess)... god, how i do love them both... yeah anyway (stand forth, indeed, john keats)... FAME SPEAKS Stand forth,John Keats! On earth thou knew'st me not; Steadfast through all the storms of passion,thou, True to thy muse,and virgin to thy vow; Resigned,if name with ashes were forgot, So thou one arrow in the gold had'st shot! I never placed my laurel on thy brow, But on thy name I come to lay it now, When thy bones wither in the earthly plot. Fame is my name. I dwell among the clouds, Being immortal,and the wreath I bring Itself is Immortality. The sweets Of earth I know not,more the pains,but wing In mine own ether,with the crown�d crowds Born of the centuries.-Stand forth,John Keats! - e. e. cummings

(for you, mystery girl) (seemed strangely appropriate) supposing i dreamed this) only imagine,when day has thrilled you are a house around which i am a wind- your walls will not reckon how strangely my life is curved since the best he can do is to peer through windows,unobserved -listen,for(out of all things)dream is noone's fool; if this wind who i am prowls carefully around this house of you love being such,or such, the normal corners of your heart will never guess how much my wonderful jealousy is dark if light should flower: or laughing sparkle from the shut house(around and around which a poor wind will roam - e. e. cummings

(the poem above does sound... right. ive read it once before, but i just got it- you know, like really 'got it'- now. i really like it.) (um... the poem below... for you. to us) the great advantage of being alive (intead of undying)is not so much that mind no more can disprove than prove what heart may feel and soul may touch -the great(my darling)happens to be that love are in we, that love are in we and here is a secret they never will share for whom create is less than have or one times one than when times where- that we are in love,that we are in love: with us they've nothing times nothing to do (for love are in we am in i are in you) this world(as timorous itsters all to call their cowardice quiet agree) shall never discover our touch and feel -for love are in we are in love are in we; for you are and i am and we are(above and under all possible worlds)in love a billion brains may coax undeath from fancied fact and spaceful time- no heart can leap,no soul can breath but by the sizeless truth of a dream whose sleep is the sky and the earth and the sea For love are in you am in i are in we - e. e. cummings (...that we are in love,that we are in love)

damn i really really love that damn

(um... more cummings... i love this one too) voices to voices,lip to lip i swear(to noone everyone)constitutes undying;or whatever this and that petal confutes... to exist being a peculiar form of sleep what's beyond logic happens beneath will; nor can these moments be translated:i say that even after April by God there is no excuse for May -bring forth your flowers and machinery:sculpture and prose flowers guess and miss machinery is the more accurate, yes it delivers the goods,Heaven knows (yet are we mindful,though not as yet awake, of ourselves which shout and cling,being for a little while and which easily break in spite of the best overseeing) i mean that the blond abscence of any program except last and always and first to live makes unimportant what i and you believe; not for philosophy does this rose give a damn... bring on your fireworks,which are a mixed splendor of piston and of pistil;very well provided an instant may be fixed so that it will not rub,like any other pastel. (While you and i have lips and voices which are for kissing and to sing with who cares if some oneyed son for a bitch invents an instrument to measure Spring with? each dream nascitur,is not made...) why then to Hell with that:the other;this, since the thing perhaps is to eat flower and not to be afraid. - e. e. cummings

OF NICOLETTE dreaming in marble all the castle lay like some gigantic ghost-flower born of night blossoming in white towers to the moon, soft sighed the passionate darkness to the tune of tiny troubadours, and (phantom white) dumb-blooming boughs let fall their glorious snows, and the unearthly sweetness of a rose swam upward from the troubled heart of May; a Winged Passion woke and one by one there fell upon the night, like angel's tears, the syllables of that mysterious prayer, and as an opening lily drowsy-fair (when from her couch of poppy petals peers the sleepy morning) gently draws apart her curtains, and lays bare her trembling heart, with beads of dew made jewels by the sun, so one high shining tower (which as a glass turned light to flame and blazed with snowy fire) unfolding, gave the moon a nymphlike face, a form whose snowy symmetry of grace haunted the limbs as the music haunts the lyre, a creature of white hands, who letting fall a thread of lustre from the castle wall glided, a drop of radiance, to the grass- shunning the sudden moonbeam's treacherous snare she sought the harbouring dark, and (catching up her delicate silk) all white, with shining feet, went forth into the dew: right wildly beat her heart at every kiss of daisy-cup and from her cheek the beauteous colour went with every bough that reverently bent to touch the yellow wonder of her hair. - e. e. cummings

is that last one from your Big Book? (never read it... it's beautiful)

uh huh, it is... and it is beautiful... its a shame this topics so... quiet...

yup (indeed)

in spite of everything which breathes and moves, since Doom (with white longest hands neatening each crease) will smooth entirely our minds -before leaving my room i turn, and (stooping through the morning) kiss this pillow, dear where our heads lived and were. e. e. cummings

I'm so happy there's a page here for cummings....he has been, is, and most likely will always be my favorite poet....I love to see others enjoying his every uncapitalized word and perfectly placed space as much as I do

in spite of everything which breathes and moves, since Doom (with white longest hands neatening each crease) will smooth entirely our minds -before leaving my room i turn, and (stooping through the morning) kiss this pillow, dear where our heads lived and were. e. e. cummings

hey!!! (what's up?)

(you're not mad at me too or you?)

oops...didn't mean to post that twice hey!!!! so much I'm not even going to begin mad?...me?....no....what makes you think so?

dunno... (natural sense of paranoia i suppose) you have my hotmail address? not even sure what my address is here... don't do much net stuff anymore...hold on... umm, it's ... i think... or ... either way, write me, okay? (um maybe you should use the hotmail address because i'm not even sure how to retrieve my mail here and i'll probably only be here another few weeks or something)

aye aye cap'n

shit put the address in brackets... didn't print... some kind of commie-computer-language thing... anyway, my hotmail address is pmnh@hotmail.com

unfortunately I'm having technical difficulties with my e-mail at the moment so...when I'm able to, I'll e-mail

I remembered

did you indeed?

I remembered

hmm....once again...oops

I did indeed no short term memory, but plenty of long term

for fear of secreted daggers (etc.), i shall refrain from comment...

I did indeed no short term memory, but plenty of long term

what's going on? echo

it didn't happen that time

refrain from comment? you? are you feeling ok?

still kickin' (et tu? tae kwon do-ing, i mean?)

(and that was just a little unkind... and you type too damn fast for me)

hey, gotta go for a bit... you wanta talk, be back in half hour or so... (i'll call, if you want)

no longer kicking....I broke my collar bone pretty badly this summer sparring with a black belt...the bones aren't going back together..I'm out of business for about eight months..I've got to run too...but I'll be back sometime in the next week...and no, I don't want you to call

damn melanie... really sorry to hear that... damn i mean damn that's awful... hope you're being a good patient (for once) (and i DO know how stubborn you can be when you've a mind to)... anyway, please do write, snail mail if nothing else (i'll send you my new address, my new texas address anyway... be living in vancouver (b.c.) fulltime, though, in a couple of weeks...

rarely to return it seems, too...

a tribute to mr. cummings..... -SIR- sir i am indebt to you, humbled and i thank that you are and have that only and truly your own awe. would, if ever that you had been roused like lazarus and doubt you and grow stupid dumb tongue knotted to struck i fashion a verse to and only accidentally because it has been so easy to write as freely as you sir that your impeccable manners and you've been brought upright, as any man stands and can i stand, beside you poet, maybe i write stale the words breed sometimes parasitic to suck blood and blood less gray from day would say, to anyone who'd ever stop to listen that i crowned myself poet in a boldness learned only through the words i've so much fell in love and took to bed, dreaming in syrup. took to sheets beneath a lyric and sing it in sleep i am in love with words you know, sir, one day i dubbed myself night so dark, and selflessly outright selfish. self, self- my, mine and i i painted me a deep deep red like the red of rose, like the red of sky- when my cookie sun is bit by sky, i and now, a rush and it is (my own) sir your own. construct the line i, and i to over, brIck, brIck brIck... and wall I am the CasIle of my I sir orbIt, my and i see vermillion i see indigo, i see colours in swirls of oil glistentrickling as the bells of brooks when they peal over rocks and fingertip pebbles sir, and thank you sincerely. -Paula Jane A'Hannay-

wow the only response i can give is to whistle far and wee...

Ditto that whistle! Paula, that is simply magnificent. Stand beside hime...tall and proud.

duh. see how flabbergasted you made me? of course I meant "stand beside HIM". sigh.

again Paula... you've left us all stunned with impressions beyond words... or at least have seen to it that those words are beyond our grasp. thank you for posting. (and stick around awhile or make those 'in-betweens' with less in between)

and now paula's back! thanks for sharing *smile*

I'm surprised and shocked that no one has posted my cummings fave, so here goes: somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond any experience,your eyes have their silence: in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me, or which i cannot touch because they are too near your slightest look easily will unclose me though i have closed myself as fingers, you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens (touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose or if your wish be to close me,i and my life will shut very beautifully,suddenly, as when the heart of this flower imagines the snow carefully everywhere descending; nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals the power of your intense fragility:whose texture compels me with the colour of its countries, rendering death and forever with each breathing (i do not know what it is about you that closes and opens;only something in me understands the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses) nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands --e. e. cummings

moving piece, john...

I can see why it is a favorite, but it is so beautiful and intimate, it is almost painful to read.

it is very intimate. love the way he figured out a way to describe this in a way that is so eloquent. john, do you know who inspired this piece for him?

Wolf, I wish I knew the answer to that. Cummings was a very private man who did not like to discuss the less political, more intimate aspects of his poetry (I also love his antiwar poetry such as "i sing of olaf..."). Nor have I read his letters, if they exist. Must've been SOME muse! Funny you should mention painful, as well as intimate, Marcia. Tennessee Williams used the poem as his inspiration for Laura in "The Glass Menagerie."

Perhaps it spoke to me on a level more vulnerable than usual...

Marcia, you can deal with the world. Poor Laura. If anyone exists like her in real life, they have my complete pity.

ooh... i love that poem. so- delicate. like crystal. just... beautiful. and that word, intimate? is perfect. thank you very much for posting it, john. and i didnt know... about laura. ive just recently re-read the glass menagerie and its so cool to see how one poet has inspired the other (and yes, i consider tennesse williams as much a poet as playwright )

So do I...and you have a delightful way with words, yourself, Paula!

I'm surprised that no one has posted my favorite e.e. cummings poem: "[ch�rie]" ch�rie the very, picturesque, last Day (when all the clocks have lost their jobs and god sits up quickly to judge the Big Sinners) he will have something large and fluffy to say to me. All the pale grumbling wings of his greater angels will cease: as that curse bounds neat-ly from the angry wad of his forehead (then fiends with pitchforkthings will catch and toss me lovingly to and fro.) Last, should you look, you 'll find me prone upon a greatest flame, which seethes in a beautiful way upward; with someone by the name of Paolo passing the time of day.

I love this one too, Amy... may i feel said he may i feel said he (i'll squeal said she just once said he) it's fun said she (may i touch said he how much said she a lot said he) why not said she (let's go said he not too far said she what's too far said he where you are said she) may i stay said he (which way said she like this said he if you kiss said she may i move said he is it love said she) if you're willing said he (but you're killing said she but it's life said he but your wife said she now said he) ow said she (tiptop said he don't stop said she oh no said he) go slow said she (cccome?said he ummm said she) you're divine!said he (you are Mine said she)

Oh my! I'm not even going to say a word...

Well, I shall...(fools rushing in and all that...!) I found that and circulated it via email...too bad I did not have the courage to post it. I like it!!!

somewhere i have neve travelled,gladly beyond any experience,your eyes have their silence: in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me, or which i cannot touch because they are too near your slightest look easily will unclose me though i have closed myself as fingers, you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens (touching skillfully,mysteriously)her first rose or if your wish be to close me,i and my life will shut very beautifully,suddenly, as when the heart of this flower imagines the snow everwhere carefully descending; nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals the power of your intense fragility:whose texture compels me with the colour of its countries, rendering death and forever with each breathing (i do not know what it is about you that closes and opens;only something in me understands the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses) nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands e.e.cummings

plato told him:he couldn't believe it(jesus told him;he wouldn't believe it)lao tsze certainly told him,and general (yes mam) sherman; and even (believe it or not)you told him:i told him;we told him (he didn't believe it,no sir)it took a nipponized bit of the old sixth avenue el;in the top of his head:to tell him -- e. e. cummings

hmmm... never read this one before... must look it up. i wonder what he was talking about? (must also look up nipponized- there's a curious word)

I forgot my Flidais password, so I switched names, but it's the same Bat Person...Nick please e-mail me so we can catch up...it's been so long

'eh- this is paula- am at a schlotsky's at a temp internet booth. currently not online, but will be soon. i just ran over to the table and told him you wrote. i'm not sure his hotmail address is still working. (just tried to get into mine and the thing crashed). anyway- he's here... well, there really, reading the paper, but yeah.... anyway, i saw a business building named after him- nippon, something nippon. so, um. i guess i came on here to answer myself... sure he wants to talk. and will... someones waiting behind me... can't write straight... aaggh.

Welcome Paula.