Poems List

Spring is like a perhaps hand

Spring is like a perhaps hand

Spring is like a perhaps hand
(which comes carefully
out of Nowhere)arranging
a window,into which people look(while
people stare
arranging and changing placing
carefully there a strange
thing and a known thing here)and


changing everything carefully


spring is like a perhaps
Hand in a window
(carefully to
and fro moving New and
Old things,while
people stare carefully
moving a perhaps
fraction of flower here placing
an inch of air there)and


without breaking anything.
626

of Ever-Ever Land i speak

of Ever-Ever Land i speak

(of Ever-Ever Land i speak
sweet morons gather roun'
who does not dare to stand or sit
may take it lying down)


down with the human soul
and anything else uncanned
for everyone carries canopeners
in Ever-Ever Land


(for Ever-Ever Land is a place
that's as simple as simple can be
and was built that way on purpose
by simple people like we)


down with hell and heaven
and all the religious fuss
infinity pleased our parents
one inch looks good to us


(and Ever-Ever Land is a place
that's measured and safe and known
where it's lucky to be unlucky
and the hitler lies down with the cohn)


down above all with love
and everything perverse
or which makes some feel more better
when all ought to feel less worse


(but only sameness is normal
in Ever-Ever Land
for a bad cigar is a woman
but a gland is only a gland)
783

Poem 42

Poem 42

n
OthI
n


g can


s
urPas
s


the m


y
SteR
y


of


s
tilLnes
s
597

my sweet old etcetera

my sweet old etcetera

my sweet old etcetera
aunt lucy during the recent


war could and what
is more did tell you just
what everybody was fighting


for,
my sister


Isabel created hundreds
(and
hundreds)of socks not to
mention fleaproof earwarmers
etcetera wristers etcetera, my
mother hoped that


i would die etcetera
bravely of course my father used
to become hoarse talking about how it was
a privilege and if only he
could meanwhile my


self etcetera lay quietly
in the deep mud et


cetera
(dreaming,
et
cetera, of
Your smile
eyes knees and of your Etcetera)
529

nobody loses all the time (X)

nobody loses all the time (X)

nobody loses all the time


i had an uncle named
Sol who was a born failure and
nearly everybody said he should have gone
into vaudeville perhaps because my Uncle Sol could
sing McCann He Was A Diver on Xmas Eve like Hell Itself which
may or may not account for the fact that my Uncle


Sol indulged in that possibly most inexcusable
of all to use a highfalootin phrase
luxuries that is or to
wit farming and be
it needlessly
added


my Uncle Sol's farm
failed because the chickens
ate the vegetables so
my Uncle Sol had a
chicken farm till the
skunks ate the chickens when


my Uncle Sol
had a skunk farm but
the skunks caught cold and
died so
my Uncle Sol imitated the
skunks in a subtle manner


or by drowning himself in the watertank
but somebody who'd given my Unde Sol a Victor
Victrola and records while he lived presented to
him upon the auspicious occasion of his decease a
scrumptious not to mention splendiferous funeral with
tall boys in black gloves and flowers and everything and


i remember we all cried like the Missouri
when my Uncle Sol's coffin lurched because
somebody pressed a button
(and down went
my Uncle
Sol


and started a worm farm)
562

my father moved through dooms of love

my father moved through dooms of love

my father moved through dooms of love
through sames of am through haves of give,
singing each morning out of each night
my father moved through depths of height


this motionless forgetful where
turned at his glance to shining here;
that if(so timid air is firm)
under his eyes would stir and squirm


newly as from unburied which
floats the first who, his april touch
drove sleeping selves to swarm their fates
woke dreamers to their ghostly roots


and should some why completely weep
my father's fingers brought her sleep:
vainly no smallest voice might cry
for he could feel the mountains grow.


Lifting the valleys of the sea
my father moved through griefs of joy;
praising a forehead called the moon
singing desire into begin


joy was his song and joy so pure
a heart of star by him could steer
and pure so now and now so yes
the wrists of twilight would rejoice


keen as midsummer's keen beyond
conceiving mind of sun will stand,
so strictly(over utmost him
so hugely)stood my father's dream


his flesh was flesh his blood was blood:
no hungry man but wished him food;
no cripple wouldn't creep one mile
uphill to only see him smile.


Scorning the pomp of must and shall
my father moved through dooms of feel;
his anger was as right as rain
his pity was as green as grain


septembering arms of year extend
less humbly wealth to foe and friend
than he to foolish and to wise
offered immeasurable is


proudly and(by octobering flame
beckoned)as earth will downward climb,



so naked for immortal work
his shoulders marched against the dark


his sorrow was as true as bread:
no liar looked him in the head;
if every friend became his foe
he'd laugh and build a world with snow.


My father moved through theys of we,
singing each new leaf out of each tree
(and every child was sure that spring
danced when she heard my father sing)


then let men kill which cannot share,
let blood and flesh be mud and mire,
scheming imagine,passion willed,
freedom a drug that's bought and sold


giving to steal and cruel kind,
a heart to fear,to doubt a mind,
to differ a disease of same,
conform the pinnacle of am


though dull were all we taste as bright,
bitter all utterly things sweet,
maggoty minus and dumb death
all we inherit,all bequeath


and nothing quite so least as truth
-i say though hate were why men breathebecause
my father lived his soul
love is the whole and more than all
593

maggie and milly and molly and may

maggie and milly and molly and may

maggie and milly and molly and may
went down to the beach (to play one day)


and maggie discovered a shell that sang
so sweetly she couldn’t remember her troubles,and


milly befriended a stranded star
whose rays five languid fingers were;


and molly was chased by a horrible thing
which raced sideways while blowing bubbles:and


may came home with a smooth round stone
as small as a world and as large as alone.


For whatever we lose(like a you or a me)
it’s always ourselves we find in the sea
901

in time of daffodils(who know

in time of daffodils(who know

in time of daffodils(who know
the goal of living is to grow)
forgetting why,remember how


in time of lilacs who proclaim
the aim of waking is to dream,
remember so(forgetting seem)


in time of roses(who amaze
our now and here with paradise)
forgetting if,remember yes


in time of all sweet things beyond
whatever mind may comprehend,
remember seek(forgetting find)


and in a mystery to be
(when time from time shall set us free)
forgetting me,remember me
445

it may not always be so

it may not always be so

it may not always be so; and i say
that if your lips, which i have loved, should touch
another's, and your dear strong fingers clutch
his heart, as mine in time not far away;
if on another's face your sweet hair lay
in such a silence as i know, or such
great writhing words as, uttering overmuch,
stand helplessly before the spirit at bay;


if this should be, i say if this should be -you
of my heart, send me a little word;
that i may go unto him, and take his hands,
saying, Accept all happiness from me.
Then shall i turn my face, and hear one bird
sing terribly afar in the lost lands.
624

If I have made, my lady, intricate

If I have made, my lady, intricate

If I have made, my lady, intricate
imperfect various things chiefly which wrong
your eyes (frailer than most deep dreams are frail)
songs less firm than your body's whitest song
upon my mind - if I have failed to snare
the glance too shy - if through my singing slips
the very skillful strangeness of your smile
the keen primeval silence of your hair


-let the world say "his most wise music stole
nothing from death" you
will only create
(who are so perfectly alive) my shame:
lady whose profound and fragile lips
the sweet small clumsy feet of April came


into the ragged meadow of my soul.
574

Comments (0)

Log in to post a comment.

NoComments

Identification and basic context

Full name: Edward Estlin Cummings. He often signed his name in lowercase, e.g., 'e. e. cummings,' as a deliberate stylistic choice to emphasize his rejection of traditional conventions and his focus on the individual. He was an American writer, poet, painter, essayist, author, and playwright. He wrote in English.

Childhood and education

Cummings was born in Cambridge, Massachusetts. His father, Edward Cummings, was a professor of English at Harvard University and later a minister. His mother, Rebecca Haseltine Clarke, was a writer. Cummings attended Cambridge School of C. J. of America and then Harvard University, where he studied English and Classics and began to experiment with poetry. He received his Master's degree from Harvard in 1915. His early influences included classical literature and the burgeoning modernist movements in art and literature.

Literary trajectory

Cummings's literary career began during his time at Harvard. His first collection of poems, *Tulips and Chimneys*, was published in 1923. Throughout his life, he continued to write prolifically, producing poetry, novels, plays, and essays. He was a highly original voice whose work evolved stylistically but remained committed to his core themes of love, nature, and individualism. He was also active as a painter, exhibiting his artwork throughout his career.

Works, style, and literary characteristics

Cummings's major works include *Tulips and Chimneys* (1923), *NoThanks* (1935), and *95 Poems* (1958). His poetry is instantly recognizable for its unique style: unconventional use of capitalization, punctuation, and spacing; invented words; and often a playful, lyrical tone. Common themes include romantic love, the beauty of nature, the individual's struggle against conformity, and a critique of mass society and political institutions. He often employed the sonnet form but radically adapted it to his experimental style. His language is rich with imagery, often celebrating the simple and the profound. He brought a fresh, modern sensibility to lyric poetry.

Cultural and historical context

Cummings lived through significant historical periods, including World War I and World War II, and the social and political changes of the 20th century. His experiences during WWI, particularly his imprisonment in France for alleged espionage, deeply impacted him and are reflected in his novel *The Enormous Room* (1922). He was often critical of what he perceived as the conformity and soullessness of modern industrial society. His work can be seen as a reaction against the prevailing social and political currents of his time, emphasizing individual freedom and authentic experience.

Personal life

Cummings had a complex personal life, marked by a passionate engagement with art and life. He was married twice. His time in Paris in the early 1920s was formative, exposing him to avant-garde artistic circles. He maintained a strong connection to his family and friends, and his personal relationships often found expression in his poetry.

Recognition and reception

While Cummings was not always embraced by mainstream literary critics during his lifetime, he achieved significant popularity among readers for his accessible themes and innovative style. He received several honors and awards for his poetry, including the Shelley Memorial Award and the National Medal for Literature. His work continues to be widely read and studied.

Influences and legacy

Cummings was influenced by traditional poets like William Blake and E. A. Robinson, as well as by modernist painters and poets. His legacy lies in his distinctive contribution to American poetry, demonstrating the power of linguistic and visual experimentation to convey profound human emotions and ideas. He inspired many poets to explore unconventional forms and to celebrate individuality.

Interpretation and critical analysis

Cummings's poetry is often interpreted as a celebration of romantic love, the natural world, and the inherent value of the individual consciousness. His experiments with form are seen not as mere gimmickry but as integral to his message of liberation from restrictive norms. His critique of conformity and his embrace of sincerity are recurring points of critical analysis.

Curiosities and lesser-known aspects

Cummings was a passionate visual artist in addition to being a poet and writer. He often integrated his paintings and drawings with his poems. He was also known for his strong opinions and his independent spirit, often refusing to compromise his artistic vision.

Death and memory

Edward Estlin Cummings died in North Conway, New Hampshire. His enduring legacy is secured by his unique and beloved body of work, which continues to captivate readers with its originality and emotional depth.