i carry your heart with me(i carry it in 
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere 
i go you go,my dear;and whatever is done 
by only me is your doing,my darling) 
     i fear 
not 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 
(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 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) 

e. e. cummings

                                         Quotations

Beautiful 

is the 
unmea 
ning 
of(sil 

ently)fal 

ling(e 
ver 
yw 
here)s 

Now 

e.e.link
e.e.starting point
e.e.reading his own poem
e.e. bio

i thank You God for most this amazing
day:for the leaping greenly spirits of trees
and a blue true dream of sky;and for everything
which is natural which is infinite which is yes

(i who have died am alive again today,
and this is the sun's birthday;this is the birth
day of life and love and wings:and of the gay
great happening illimitably earth)

how should tasting touching hearing seeing
breathing any-lifted from the no
of all nothing-human merely being
doubt unimaginably You?

(now the ears of my ears awake and
now the eyes of my eyes are opened)

e.e.
This picture appears courtesy of: Tony Ungaro

e.e.'s grave

when god decided to invent 
everything he took one 
breath bigger than a circustent 
and everything began 

when man determined to destroy 
himself he picked the was 
of shall and finding only why 
smashed it into because 

let it go-the
smashed word broken
open vow or
the oath cracked length
wise-let it go it
was sworn to
                     go

let them go-the
truthful liars and
the false fair friends
and the boths and
neithers-you must let them go they
were born
                to go

let all go-the
big small middling
tall bigger really
the biggest and all
things-let all go
dear
       so comes love

more e.e. poetry

who are you,little i 

(five or six years old) 
peering from some high 

window;at the gold 

of November sunset 

(and feeling:that if day 
has to become night 

this is a beautiful way) 

 

since feeling is first
who pays any attention
to the syntax of things
will never wholly kiss you;

wholly to be a fool
while Spring is in the world

my blood approves,
and kisses are a far better fate
than wisdom
lady i swear by all flowers. Don't cry
--the best gesture of my brain is less than
your eyelids' flutter which says

we are for eachother: then
laugh, leaning back in my arms
for life's not a paragraph

And death i think is no parenthesis


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

here's to opening and upward, to leaf and to sap
and to your(in my arms flowering so new)
self whose eyes smell of the sound of rain

and here's to silent certainly mountains;and to
a disappearing poet of always,snow
and to morning;and to morning's beautiful friend
twilight(and a first dream called ocean)and

let must or if be damned with whomever's afraid
down with ought with because with every brain
which thinks it thinks,nor dares to feel(but up
with joy;and up with laughing and drunkenness)

here's to one undiscoverable guess
of whose mad skill each world of blood is made
(whose fatal songs are moving in the moon

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 from 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.

pity this busy monster,manunkind,

not. Progress is a comfortable disease:
your victim(death and life safely beyond)

plays with the bigness of his littleness
-electrons deify one razorblade
into a mountainrange;lenses extend

unwish through curving wherewhen until unwish
returns on its unself.
            A world of made
is not a world of born-pity poor flesh

and trees,poor stars and stones,but never this
fine specimen of hypermagical

ultraomnipotence. We doctors know

a hopeless case if-listen:there's a hell
of a good universe next door;let's go

O sweet spontaneous
earth how often have
the
doting

    fingers of
prurient philosophers pinched
and
poked

thee
, has the naughty thumb
of science prodded
thy

    beauty    , how
often have religions taken
thee upon their scraggy knees
squeezing and

buffeting thee that thou mightest conceive
gods
    (but
true

to the incomparable
couch of death thy
rhythmic
lover

    thou answerest


them only with

        spring)

in Just-
spring    when the world is mud-
luscious the little
lame balloonman

whistles    far    and wee

and eddieandbill come
running from marbles and
piracies and it's
spring

when the world is puddle-wonderful

the queer
old balloonman whistles
far    and    wee
and bettyandisabel come dancing

from hop-scotch and jump-rope and

it's
spring
and
    the
        goat-footed

balloonMan    whistles
far
and
wee


                                          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

To be nobody but yourself in a world which is doing its best night
    and day to make you like everybody else means to fight the hardest
    battle any human being can fight and never stop fighting.

    -- E. E. Cummings

              eelover  09/04/2006