You can take the turbulent emotions of love and attempt to pen them into words. However, love proves to be elusive and cannot be fully explained. There will always be gaps between sentences and feelings.
A flair of wit and whimsy is how we can describe the work of Cummings, who was also known for his focus on sexuality, love, and nature in both a spiritual and sensual sense.
Edward Estlin Cummings, who is better known as E.E Cummings, was a an American poet and novelist known for his innovations in structure and style. The strange word order, parenthesis, structure, and lyrical composition make his poems something entirely new . He was undoubtedly influenced by the European avant-garde movement, which transfigured his poetry into visual art.
A melancholic and sensitive description of a person’s life is the source of inspiration for Cummings’s work. His disruptive writing abandons the canons of prose and the traditional forms. His chosen words are powerful and never lose their meaning or aesthetic sense.
Cummings’s poetry becomes as necessary in our lives as the air we need to breath.
Unfortunately, like other writers, Cummings’s writing was viewed as immature and unreadable. Nowadays, we can recognize there is a beauty to his “awkwardness” and the contributions he made to the literary world.
I carry your heart
i carry your heart with me(i carry it inmy heart)i am never without it(anywherei go you go,my dear;and whatever is doneby only me is your doing, my darling) i fearno fate(for you are my fate, my sweet)i wantno world(for beautiful you are my world, my true)and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meantand whatever a sun will always sing is youhere is the deepest secret nobody knows(here is the root of the root and the bud of the budand the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which growshigher than soul can hope or mind can hide)and this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars aparti carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)
Now that
now that, more nearest even than your fateand mine(or any truth beyond perceive)quivers this miracle of summer nighther trillion secrets touchably alive-while and all mysteries which i or you(blinded by merely things believable)could only fancy we should nevr knoware unimaginably ours to feel-how should some world(we marvel)doubt,for justsweet terrifying the particularmoment it takes one very falling most(there: did you see it?) star to disapppearthat hugest whole creation may be lessincalculable than a single Kiss
because i love you)last night
because i love you)last nightclothed in sealaceappeared to meyour mind driftingwith chuckling rubbishof pearl weed coral and stones;lifted,and(before myeyes sinking)inward,fled;softlyyour face smile breasts gargledby death:drowned onlyagain carefully through deepness to risethese your wriststhighs feet handspoisingto again utterly disappear;rushing gently swiftly creepingthrough my dreams lastnight,all of yourbody with its spirit floated(clothed only inthe tide’s acute weaving murmur
Since feeling is first
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 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 each other: 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
somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyondany 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 nearyour slightest look easily will unclose methough i have closed myself as fingers,you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first roseor if your wish be to close me,i andmy life will shut very beautifully,suddenly,as when the heart of this flower imaginesthe snow carefully everywhere descending;nothing which we are to perceive in this world equalsthe power of your intense fragility:whose texturecompels me with the colour of its countries,rendering death and forever with each breathing(i do not know what it is about you that closesand opens;only something in me understandsthe voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands
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E.E Cummings’s poetry reflects his rebellious heart, and it’s meant for rebellious readers. In his words, we find the opportunity to get closer to our feelings.
