happy birthday e e cummings
[somewhere i have never travelled]
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 color 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
(Edward Estlin Cummings, October 14, 1894 – September 3, 1962. This is my favorite e e cummings poem. The last verse always makes me catch my breath.)
poetry
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 color 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
(Edward Estlin Cummings, October 14, 1894 – September 3, 1962. This is my favorite e e cummings poem. The last verse always makes me catch my breath.)
poetry
posted by Cynthia at
8:27 AM
3 Comments:
This is also my favorite ee cummings poem...no matter how many times I read it it still has the same effect on me. I remember the first time I heard it, it was read in Hannah and Her Sisters.
This poem makes me feel as if I'm falling into it...
Oh, I love cummings! when faces called flowers push out of the ground...and all that...
Post a Comment
Subscribe to Post Comments [Atom]
<< Home