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for the enjoyment
and passion of words,
thoughts, and disiplines.
somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
By e. e. commings

somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond

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

Note: from 1923 / From Complete Poems: 1904-1962 by E. E. Cummings, edited by George J. Firmage.

Note: from 1923 / From Complete Poems: 1904-1962 by E. E. Cummings, edited by George J. Firmage.

------------------------------------------------------------
if
By e. e. commings

If freckles were lovely, and day was night,
And measles were nice and a lie warn't a lie,
           Life would be delight,--
           But things couldn't go right
           For in such a sad plight
I wouldn't be I.

If earth was heaven and now was hence,
And past was present, and false was true,
           There might be some sense
           But I'd be in suspense
           For on such a pretense
You wouldn't be you.

If fear was plucky, and globes were square,
And dirt was cleanly and tears were glee
           Things would seem fair,--
           Yet they'd all despair,
           For if here was there
We wouldn't be we.

Note: from 1923 / Fr


--
e. e. cummings
(Edward Estlin Cummings)
Born: October 14 1894, Cambridge Massachusetts
Died: September 3, 1962 (aged 67) Joy Farm in Madison, New Hampshire
Edward Estlin Cummings, popularly known as E. E. Cummings, with the abbreviated form of his name often written by others in all lowercase letters as e. e. cummings, was an American poet, painter, essayist, author, and playwright. His body of work encompasses approximately 2,900 poems, an autobiographical novel, four plays and several essays, as well as numerous drawings and paintings. He is remembered as a preeminent voice of 20th century poetry, as well as one of the most popular.
Cummings is known for his radical experimentation with form, punctuation, spelling, and syntax; he abandoned traditional techniques and structures to create a new, highly idiosyncratic means of poetic expression.
At the time of his death, in 1962, he was the second most widely read poet in the United States, after Robert Frost.
He is buried in Forest Hills Cemetery in Boston, Massachusetts.