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 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
They say you will either love or hate E.E.Cummings. You might not get him at all and believe that his poetry is just a bunch of words (sometimes made up words) strung together with weird punctuation, line spaces at all the wrong places, parenthesis used like no other poet does(what to they mean! Why is he using them?) or you might be like me and soak in the way his words excite me, make me feel something beyond any other experience. I don’t do love poetry! I am not sure I can. But, this is my attempt to show my love for the words. He is definitely my current favourite poet and no other poet’s work astounds me like he does. I have also mirrored him by using mostly small letters even for the ‘I’ in my poem, and playing by my own rules.
your essence rides with me as i sit stand breathe walk
like my favourite perfume that i would choose repeatedly, always.
the timbre of your delicately juxtaposed words earworm my being morn noon night
tattooing itself on my soul that I may pass it on through life and death to my rebirth
my mind beats a bit faster my heart is on fever sleep is for the uninitiated
my breathe pauses to witness your next performance
waiting to be swept away gladly beyond the known
O! moonshine of language, rub off (your glitter) on me a little.