There's been no e.e. cummings on this forum, so . . .

[andyfox]

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 noone 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

-e.e.cummings

I'll leave it for John Cole to elaborate.

[Kurn, son of Mogh]

Very nice. As freshman in college I wrote a paper comparing this to Edwin Arlington Robinson's "Mr. Flood's Party"

[MMMMMM]

That's an enjoyable poem; light, quite creative, and pretty good. The poem can also be taken quite seriously in a sense. Nice again to see you enjoying poetry, andy, and to take the topics off all the heavy stuff;-)

John, I have not been able to find the poem "The Snowman" which you recommended. Googled it but no luck on several occasions. What was the author's name again? (although I think I googled his name too back when). By the way, "Desert Places" still runs through my mind on occasion while driving--also, I find I am acquiring more of a taste for Frost.

[Kurn, son of Mogh]

Funny, but "light" is not a word I'd use to characterize this poem.

[MMMMMM]

Why not? It's both light and serious.

[Zeno]

may I feel said he

may I feel said he
(i'll squeal said she
just once said he)
it's fun said she

(may i touch said he
how much said she
a lot said he)
why not said she

(let's go said he
not too far said she
what's too far said he
where you are said she)

may i stay said he
(which way said she
like this said he
if you kiss said she

may i move said he
is it love said she)
if you're willing said he
(but you're killing said she

but it's life said he
but your wife said she
now said he)
ow said she

(tiptop said he
don't stop said she
oh no said he)
go slow said she

(cccome? said he
ummm said she)
you're divine!said he
(you're Mine said she)

[Phat Mack]

she being Brand

-new;and you
know consequently a
little stiff i was
careful of her and(having

thoroughly oiled the universal
joint tested my gas felt of
her radiator made sure her springs were O.

K.)i went right to it flooded-the-carburetor cranked her

up,slipped the
clutch(and then somehow got into reverse she
kicked what
the hell)next
minute i was back in neutral tried and

again slo-wly;bare,ly nudg. ing(my

lev-er Right-
oh and her gears being in
A 1 shape passed
from low through
second-in-to-high like
greasedlightning)just as we turned the corner of Divinity

avenue i touched the accelerator and give

her the juice,good

(it

was the first ride and believe i we was
happy to see how nice she acted right up to
the last minute coming back down by the Public
Gardens i slammed on

the
internalexpanding
&
externalcontracting
brakes Bothatonce and

brought allofher tremB
-ling
to a:dead.

stand-
;Still)

[Phat Mack]

<font class="small">Code:</font><hr /><pre> Buffalo Bill's
defunct
who used to
ride a watersmooth-silver
stallion
and break onetwothreefourfive pigeonsjustlikethat
Jesus

he was a handsome man
and what i want to know is
how do you like your blueeyed boy
Mister Death </pre><hr />

[M2d]

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 bettyandisbel come dancing

from hop-scotch and jump-rope and


it's
spring
and
the

goat-footed

balloonMan whistles
far
and
wee

[John Cole]

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 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

[andyfox]

You have done yourself proud. What a master of language and thought was mr. cummings. I was all smiles and tears as I read through the posted poems. I remember all but the one posted by John Cole, which was new to me and which I found extraordinary.

Bravo. And bless you all.

[Phat Mack]

1. What is Andy's poem about?

2. Is e. e. a sentimental poet, or a poet that examines sentimentality? (One of the bums down at the local pool hall is a chaired, tenured professor at the local U. He and I argue about this all the time. Railbirds who sweat our games have to listen while we take fifteen minute breaks and ridicule each other.)

3. When is somebody going to point out the disturbing similarities between e. e.'s poems and ray zee's 2+2 posts?

[andyfox]

http://www.english.uiuc.edu/maps/poets/a_f/cummings/howtown.htm

[andyfox]

http://cinema-tv.usc.edu/Archives/lucas/anyone.html

[Kurn, son of Mogh]

The meter is light, the tone is serious. cummings was a master.

[Kurn, son of Mogh]

Actually, this analysis is almost too unidimensional to really capture the complexity of emotion and almost zen realism of the poem.

I could write for hours on the subtleties of the poem, but here are a couple of short thoughts. To me the central theme is the oft-referenced "lives of quiet desparation" concept. Think a bit about the implications of "he sang his didn't, he danced his did." and the fact that there seems to be no outward reciprocating emotion from anyone to noone.

I'd suggest that you do read "Mr. Flood's Party" and relate the two works to each other.

What's interesting is that this work varies from cummings' more pointedly topical works like "i sing of olaf", "plato told him" and "buffal bill's defunct", which all have a more pointedly anti-war anger to them. This poem seems almost like a step towards zen in comparison.

And last of all, thanks for the post. Revisiting I paper I wrote 34 years ago on poems that speak to the passage of time was thought-provoking.

[John Cole]

I haven't read the analysis yet, but I'll offer a few points. First, read "anyone" and "noone" as nouns rather than pronouns. That is, "anyone" and "noone" will not represent types but individuals. Then you will have reciprocation. The poem, then, is a love poem. Who loved "anyone"? "Noone" did.

Also, the lilting, bouncing meter conveys a certain innocence, which the words of the poem dismantle: "children guessed (but only a few and down they forgot as up they grew)." Here cummings invokes the Romantic poets, Wordsworth, in particular. See "Intimations of Immortality."

Yet, in cummings' poem "anyone" and "noone" seem to retain some of that innocence even into adulthood. Note the closing "earth by april wish by spirit and if by yes." These images seem somewhat affirming here after the death of "anyone" and "noone" who are buried side by side. In many ways, I think, cummings' poem speaks of love and death, loss and recompense.

I guess I'll see what the experts say.

[MMMMMM]

well...I don't see there necessarily being a conflict between lightness and seriousness. A greatness of the poem is that he juxtaposes the two in such a way that highlights the seriousness and lightness against each other, and he also does this with the vast universality of the human experience and the individuality of the human experience. The contrast is quite poignant. Everyone goes through the same individual path (so to speak), and the cycle continues.

I have not read a great deal of cummings, but I must say, to be perfectly honest, that from what I have read I feel hesitant to agree that cummings is a master. Keats, Shelley, Longfellow, Burns, Wordsworth, Frost--they were masters. cummings is good but I don't feel that he was in the same league at all.

[MMMMMM]

By the way, Kurn, I am sorry if I have slighted a poet you greatly admire. I tend to compare everything to the greatest, and that may be a personality flaw of mine. However it gives me a yardstick and grounds for aspiration in any endeavour.

Specifically, I haven't seen in cummings' poems (yet, anyway;-)) the degree of technical mastery that certain other poets had, and which seemed almost to flow naturally in their writings. Nor has it struck me that he is great at "capturing" the essence of a thought or feeling as economically and totally as certain others have. I'm not saying cummings isn't good, and there is plenty of room to read, ponder and enjoy. But I guess I am prejudiced, for I also think that the greatest classical music is generally overall of a higher level than the greatest modern music (not that I don't think some modern music isn't also great).

I have spoken to John Cole about this before--that I don't know of any modern poets truly as good as some of the older poets. Maybe that's just me but I feel in my heart it is true. Also I am surely missing some good stuff because I have been a bit turned off to modern poets in general--overall their works tend to be quite inferior to the greatest older poets. Find me a modern poet truly as great as Keats, Shelley, Burns, Wordsworth, Longfellow or possibly Frost--and by that I mean: as good technically, conceptually, creatively, and artistically, with a dash of genius sprinkled in--and I'll change my mind and thank you a hundred times over.

Well, maybe cummings is a master as you say--but then what are the poets listed above?

[Kurn, son of Mogh]

No slight at all. The same poem with have different effect on me at different times. Based on my mood I may be more receptive to Shelley one day, Hopkins the next.

De gustabus non est dispudatem. (apologies if my latin sucks)

[MMMMMM]

Yes, the same poem may have different effects at different times or in different settings.

I like to dwell on favorite poems over time, always trying to see deeper.

[andyfox]

I should have known you'd like this one. Kind of an x-rated Ogden Nash ("what's too far . . . where you are").

The last line is wonderful.