January 22, 2011 Leave a Comment I won’t preface this poem too much with explanation or emotional context or anything like this, but it seemed fitting that my first post (belated) of 2011 should be a poem as that is more or less all I posted back at the beginning of my life as a blogger (2003-2004). somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond your slightest look easily will unclose me or if your wish be to close me, i and nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals (i do not know what it is about you that closes That last line is an all-time classic; cuts right to the marrow of something I cannot articulate. And it is a love poem as I like them, both inward and outward facing. Motion. Deliberate. Love. More importantly, it strikes me Cummings is a perfect poet for the modern abbreviated age of networks, connections, ephemeral exchanges, 140 characters of emotional impact. Poetry is short-form reflection; greater evidence of learning emotional content doesn’t exist.
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
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose
my life will shut very beautifully ,suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;
the power of your intense fragility:whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing
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