compels me with the color of its countries
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
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 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
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Favouritest poem. ♥ Seriously, I can go sit out on a garden bench at work and look up at the cherry trees, and look up at the wide blue sky, and recite this poem to myself and everything is perfect for that beautiful space of time.
All right, folks. That's it for Poetry Month 2009; I hope you've enjoyed some of my selections.
*vanishes into the sinkhole of term papers and dooooom*
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 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
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Favouritest poem. ♥ Seriously, I can go sit out on a garden bench at work and look up at the cherry trees, and look up at the wide blue sky, and recite this poem to myself and everything is perfect for that beautiful space of time.
All right, folks. That's it for Poetry Month 2009; I hope you've enjoyed some of my selections.
*vanishes into the sinkhole of term papers and dooooom*