We have now reached the portion of National Poetry Month where I
turn it over to e.e. cummings. In fact, I’m giving you two of his takes on
death and love, the two things on which poets usually concentrate in times of
plague, war and pestilence.
“Buffalo Bill’s”
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 blue-eyed boy
Mister
Death
I do not believe it’s possible to have too much cummings; he succinctly captures the most expansive emotions into perfect drops of language.
“i
carry your heart with me(i carry it in”
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
no
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)
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