After the events in Boston yesterday, I decided to not post anything for the rest of the day. So this week’s poet–e.e. cummings–will be short by a day.
I first encountered e.e. cummings in high school, when we read a poem or two by him which I didn’t much like. Later, in college, I found that the outward play of his unconventional grammar and punctuation hides a real beauty of language. In fact, I think cummings has a somewhat undeserved reputation as a bawdy poet–he is bawdy in the same way John Donne is, and to take that as the face value of his poems is doing him a disservice.
At any rate, here is one of my favorites today.
who are you,little i
(five or six years old)
peering from some high
window;at the gold
of november sunset
(and feeling:that if day
has to become night
this is a beautiful way)
Note: There’s an interesting discussion of the history of the decapitalization of Cummings’ name, with a strong suggestion that he himself preferred the capitalized version. However, in this case I’ve chosen to go with the version most readers will be familiar with.