e.e. cummings, "somewhere i have 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 will easily 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
After reading this poem a couple of times, I think of fragility, sensitivity, how my mother used to say I was like this flower that closes instantly at the slightest touch...open and close, open and close. At least this is what I think e.e. cummings captures in this remarkable poem...
ReplyDeleteThis e.e. cummings piece stirs something, a longing perhaps, that is very real to me. It captures the fragility of our vulnerability -open and available for, perhaps, a single moment, to a single person, for a single, ephemeral exchange. And, only, in our rose-budded youth do we proceed, not yet with thorn in hand, to allow ourselves to be opened, despite full knowledge of the wilting consequence to follow.
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