Wednesday, March 29 — e e cummings – “. . . the voice of your eyes . . . ”
Early spring, mid-semester, lots of neighborhood hustle and growth, clean elegant sunshine, leaves budding out. Perfect day for e e cummings’ exquisite love song.
In these hard and strident weeks, it helps to let a strong love poem work its word magic deep down where the soul’s muscles get stiff with fatigue and need some tending.
Try it out loud with pauses and take some time to look at the leaves showing themselves.
Have a blest day.
Today’s post “Somewhere”
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 skillfully, 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 color 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
October 14, 1894 – September 3, 1962