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(no subject)
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 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 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
That was one of the first cummings poems I ever read. It's the reason I kept reading, and why I finally invested in the fifty-dollar complete works of. (Although I first read cummings because of the Joan Baez song, the one where she set "All in green went my love riding" to a lovely haunting melody.)
He must have had a deep affair with words, cummings, to manipulate them as stunningly as he did. I can imagine him with eyes closed and words pushing through his mind and blood. I know that feeling, a little, but I like other people's words best.
Every day at work should be two and a half hours long. Scandalous, it is, considering I'm being paid for seven.
It's really a beautiful day. I'm enjoying the afternoon, and the silence, and the sunlight coming in through the windows and casting leaf-shaped shadows on the floor. It's a good day to be alive. It's a good day to read cummings. It's a good day to get off the damn computer and live in the rest of the world.
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 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
That was one of the first cummings poems I ever read. It's the reason I kept reading, and why I finally invested in the fifty-dollar complete works of. (Although I first read cummings because of the Joan Baez song, the one where she set "All in green went my love riding" to a lovely haunting melody.)
He must have had a deep affair with words, cummings, to manipulate them as stunningly as he did. I can imagine him with eyes closed and words pushing through his mind and blood. I know that feeling, a little, but I like other people's words best.
Every day at work should be two and a half hours long. Scandalous, it is, considering I'm being paid for seven.
It's really a beautiful day. I'm enjoying the afternoon, and the silence, and the sunlight coming in through the windows and casting leaf-shaped shadows on the floor. It's a good day to be alive. It's a good day to read cummings. It's a good day to get off the damn computer and live in the rest of the world.