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January 25, 2005

somewhere i have never travelled

I love e. e. cummings. This poem came to mind today. Something tender and achingly delicate in the heart of winter.

'somewhere i have never travelled'

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 which 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

-- e. e. cummings

Yours, &c., LC | 04:40 PM | Writing & Language | Comments (2) | TrackBack (0)

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Comments

Ah, good old Ee.

Remind me to tell you of Dr. Pockless and The Clock when next we chat.

Posted by: Stuart at January 25, 2005 08:57 PM

ah...you bring back memories. memories i thought i had long forgotten in the past that i used to hope never to recall.

but now they are good memories.

thank you for sharing e.e.

Posted by: stef at January 26, 2005 01:54 PM

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