poetry lounge: “to be nobody but yourself.” {e.e. cummings}
Welcome to the Poetry Lounge. Here you can escape, for a moment, the banal echoes of ordinary life.
Our special guest today is Edward Estlin Cummings (otherwise known as e.e.), born in Cambridge, Massachusetts on October 14, 1894.
You could say that Edward was called to poetry, beginning his explorations of poetic writing at the age of eight.
“Such was a poet and shall be and is—who’ll solve the depths of horror to defend a sunbeam’s architecture with his life: and carve immortal jungles of despair to hold a mountain’s heartbeat in his hand.” ~ e. e. c.
E. E. Cummings made me notice poetry—really see it for the first time—during a period of my life which consisted mostly of comic books and science fiction novels.
I was a late bloomer to poetry and literature. I was intelligent but not intellectual; philosophical but unsophisticated in my philosophical thinking because I hadn’t yet read up on the philosophers.
As for poetry—it may as well have been a foreign language spoken by an idiot, signifying nothing. It did not sing a song that moved my heart. Music did that for me, but my soul was deaf to poetry… until the day I started hanging out with poets.
Anybody can learn to think, or believe, or know, but not a single human being can be taught to feel… the moment you feel, you’re nobody-but-yourself.
I was twenty-one and I’d just been kicked out the Air Force over a difference of opinion of what I should be doing with my life.
I wanted to learn Russian and be a translator and eventually a diplomat and the Air Force wanted me to stand guard at one of their bases somewhere or reverse-engineer an insect into a biological weapon—at least, that’s what I assumed I would be doing if I became an Entomology Specialist.
I didn’t enlist with a guaranteed job and they screwed me over for it — but that’s another story of poor judgment and idealism gone awry.
“Great men burn bridges before they come to them.” ~ e. e. c.
Back home, feeling raw and quite the failure, I fell in with a group on poets that hung around the campus of the University of Oregon.
Late nights of listening to music and hanging out at Lenny’s Nosh Bar led to my inclusion in a poetry show they were putting together that was called Dancing With Zelda—as a homage to F. Scott Fitzgerald’s stormy relationship with his wife.
The show was a mixture of original poems by my poet friends and poetry by Dylan Thomas, T.S. Eliot and E. E. Cummings, among others.
This is the first poem that grabbed me:
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 no one 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
Wow! What was this arrangement of words that was giving me goose flesh and making my insides feel strange?
It was spine-tingling truth, that’s what it was. I had never read anything like it. It knocked my socks off.
One of the coolest things about it to me was that Cummings clearly didn’t give a damn about punctuation or any of the other rules of writing that I was always inexplicably resentful to follow but did so dutifully.
There was something so simple and elegant and unpretentious about the writing that appealed to me.
I was also in that phase of life when falling in love was pretty much the best thing ever. It was the ever present ache. And Cummings spoke the language of that ache in words that were honest and completely stripped of ambiguity.
somewhere i have never traveled, 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
I think of this poem as the most used arrow in Cupid’s quiver, drenched in the same juice of the flower that Puck used to make a Fairie Queen fall in love with a man with the head of an ass.
It is one of the most unabashedly romantic love tokens I’ve ever read, as compelling as anything ever uttered by Romeo Montague or Cyrano de Bergerac. It has the effect of a magic spell.
And, when it comes to expressing the carnal aspect of love, nobody gets down and dirty like the master poet.
But, e. e. cummings (his lowercase nom de plume) was no mere sonneteer. Reading his poetry is like listening to the blues. His poetic spirit plays mischievous surrealistic games in Paris with the Dadaists.
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 till 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
Is this the poetry of quantum physics and parallel worlds? I dunno. But, this poem has always defied my attempts to explain it because it’s layered with meaning. Like the way photons affect subatomic particles, the act of observing the poem changes it.
In 1917, during the first world war in Europe, Cummings enlisted in the Norton-Harjes Ambulance Corps and was arrested five months later by the French military on suspicion of espionage because he openly expressed anti-war views.
He wrote a novel, The Enormous Room, based on his experiences in the military detention camp in Normandy where he was held for three and a half months. I think of this when I read one of my favorite expressions of misanthropic sarcasm:
Humanity i love you
because you would rather black the boots of
success than inquire whose soul dangles from his
watch-chain which would be embarassing for both
parties and because you
unflinchingly applaud all
songs containing the words country home and
mother when sung at the old howard
Humanity i love you because
when you’re hard up you pawn your
intelligence to buy a drink and when
you’re flush your pride keeps
you from the pawn shop and
because you are continually commiting
nuisances but more
especially in your own house
Humanity i love you because you
are perpetually putting the secret of
life in your pants and forgetting
it’s there and sitting down
on it
and because you are
always making poems in the lap
of death Humanity
i hate you
Something happened to E. E. Cummings toward the end of his life that contradicted the image of him as a bohemian surrealist writer.
Before he died in 1962, he became a Republican and supporter of Senator Joseph McCarthy. I think that, at the end, he must have forgotten the vitality of his earlier poetry and was only making poems in the lap of death.
But, in the Poetry Lounge, I feel that the poems matter more than the poets. And so, I will leave you with this:
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
~ E.E. Cummings
*****
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