Selected Poems

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

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in my heart)

I like my body when it is with your body. It is so quite new a thing. Muscles better and nerves more.

anyone lived in a pretty how town (with up so floating many bells down) spring summer autumn winter he sang his didn't he danced his did Women and men(both little and small) cared for anyone not at all they sowed their isn't they reaped their same sun moon stars rain children guessed(but only a few and down they forgot as up they grew autumn winter spring summer) that noone loved him more by more when by now and tree by leaf she laughed his joy she cried his grief bird by snow and stir by still anyone's any was all to her someones married their everyones laughed their cryings and did their dance (sleep wake hope and then)they said their nevers they slept their dream stars rain sun moon (and only the snow can begin to explain how children are apt to forget to remember with up so floating many bells down) one day anyone died i guess (and noone stooped to kiss his face) busy folk buried them side by side little by little and was by was all by all and deep by deep and more by more they dream their sleep noone and anyone earth by april wish by spirit and if by yes. Women and men (both dong and ding) summer autumn winter spring reaped their sowing and went their came sun moon stars rain

the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses

love is a deeper season than reason; my sweet one

(existing's tricky:but to live's a gift)

-tomorrow is our permanent address and there they’ll scarcely find us(if they do, we’ll move away still further:into now

in the street of the sky night walks scattering poems

n OthI n g can s urPas s the m y SteR y of s tilLnes s

i fear no fate(for you are my 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

what time is it?its is by every star a different time,and each most falsely true ...

(and from my thighs which shrug and pant a murdering rain leapingly reaches the upward singular deepest flower which she carries in a gesture of her hips)

losing through you what seemed myself, i find selves unimaginably mine, beyond sorrow’s own joys and hoping’s very fears yours is the light by which my spirit’s born: yours is the darkness of my soul’s return - you are my sun, my moon, and all my stars

(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 the soul can hope or mind can hide) and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart) Edward Estlin Cummings

i go you go,my dear; and whatever is done by only me is your doing,my darling)

It is always ourselves we find in the seas.

along the brittle treacherous bright streets of memory comes my heart,singing like an idiot,whispering like a drunken man

and what I want to know is how do you like your blue-eyed boy

i charge laughing. Into the hair-thin tints of yellow dawn, into the women-coloured twilight

The Symbol of all Art is the Prism. The goal is unrealism. The method is destructive. To break up the white light of objective realism into the secret glories which it contains. e.e. cummings

it's spring and the goat-footed balloonMan whistles far and wee

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

Because of his unusual way of handling language, Cummings had to travel a long road from the time his early books were ridiculed for their eccentricity to the point at which, with Robert Frost, he was one of the two most popular poets in America.

May my heart always be open to little⁣ birds who are the secrets of living⁣ Whatever they sing is better than to know⁣ and if men should not hear them men are old⁣ ⁣ May my mind stroll about hungry⁣ and fearless and thirsty and supple⁣ and even if it's Sunday may I be wrong⁣ for whenever men are right they are not young⁣ ⁣ And may myself do nothing usefully⁣ And love yourself so more than truly⁣ There's never been quite such a fool who could fail⁣ pulling all the sky over him with one smile.

death,as men call him,ends what they call men —but beauty is more now than dying’s when

the trick of finding what you didn’t lose (existing’s tricky:but to live’s a gift) the teachable imposture of always arriving at the place you never left

love is the voice under all silences, the hope which has no opposite in fear; the strength so strong mere force is feebleness: the truth more first than sun more last than star

may my mind stroll about hungry and fearless and thirsty and supple