l(a -- e e cummings

Guest poem sent in by Pranesh Prakash , in yet
another take on the flight theme:

(Poem #1956) l(a l(a le af fa ll s) one l iness -- e e cummings

Comments:

This is a poem I immediately thought of when I saw the theme "flight".  It
is about the flight of a leaf as it is falling down from a tree.  When read
together without the line-breaks, it turns out to be

  l(a leaf falls)oneliness.

It links up the falling of a lone leaf (note the emphasis on "1" (the
numeral one) in the first line, as also the "one" in l"one"liness) to the
emotion of loneliness.

The most beautiful part of this poem is the way it is structured, which to
me seems to resemble the passage of a leaf through various points of time
from the half-horizontal "l(a" of the leaf on the tree, to the side-view of
"ll" when it is in mid-air to the final full-horizontal of "iness".

If you don't see that leaf falling, perhaps instead you see a large "L" in
the shape of the poem, or perhaps a large "1" (with a line underneath: think
of 1 in "Courier" instead of in "Arial".)  The imagery that Cummings manages
to evoke by saying so little is just beautiful.  And this is actually a poem
where the reason for abrupt and seemingly random line-breaks is clear
(though with different clarity to each person) after some thought, and goes
on to be really appreciated.  The poem is all the more beautiful for the way
the words are broken up.

Pranesh

[Links]

Biography:
  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/E._E._Cummings

Here's an excellent essay on Cummings's use of typography and line breaks as
a poetic element:
  http://www.cyberessays.com/English/104.htm

And, since it appears to be a perennial misconception, an explanation of why
it is not "e. e. cummings":
  http://www.gvsu.edu/english/cummings/caps.htm

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Spring is like a perhaps hand -- e e cummings

Guest poem sent in by Michael Andrews

(Poem #1947) Spring is like a perhaps hand Spring is like a perhaps hand (which comes carefully out of Nowhere)arranging a window,into which people look(while people stare arranging and changing placing carefully there a strange thing and a known thing here)and changing everything carefully spring is like a perhaps Hand in a window (carefully to and from moving New and Old things,while people stare carefully moving a perhaps fraction of flower here placing an inch of air there)and without breaking anything. -- e e cummings

We have this neighbor who loves to garden.  Her whole front yard is planted
with bulbs and other herbaceous perennials but, for the most part, the plot
is brown in winter.  But starting in late February, as I drive past her
house, I see her stooped over the earth from time to time.

This E. E. Cummings poem so reminds me of what takes place in her garden plot
as I drive by her house each day when I leave the development.  These are
delicate changes in her little plot, none dramatic, but a plant is up one
day, flowering the next without any dramatic fanfare; a bed is barren one
day but covered with small green shoots the next.  The neighbor's hand,
arranging and rearrranging the plants for the year, in small increments,
mostly unseen (she works out of her home, is not in the garden most times I
pass, but leaves evidence of her work - a peach basket here, gardening stool
there, a pile of weeds... gone the next day) is captured precisely in this
poem.

She moves new things and old in and out of garden spots.  Not all at once,
but you notice slight movements in plant blooming.  Changes are slight but
quick.  "How did that clump get there?" I ask one day.  The clump is in
blossom the next!

'a fraction of flower here placing an inch of air there) and without
breaking anything.'

Cummings captures the joy of incremental, but inexorable growth that happens
each Spring in this small poem.  I like to think my neighbor Ruth is
Spring's hand in the window...

Enjoy!

Mike Andrews

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nobody loses all the time -- e e cummings

Guest poem sent in by Lisa

(Poem #1696) nobody loses all the time nobody loses all the time i had an uncle named Sol who was a born failure and nearly everybody said he should have gone into vaudeville perhaps because my Uncle Sol could sing McCann He Was A Diver on Xmas Eve like Hell Itself which may or may not account for the fact that my Uncle Sol indulged in that possibly most inexcusable of all to use a highfalootin phrase luxuries that is or to wit farming and be it needlessly added my Uncle Sol's farm failed because the chickens ate the vegetables so my Uncle Sol had a chicken farm till the skunks ate the chickens when my Uncle Sol had a skunk farm but the skunks caught cold and died and so my Uncle Sol imitated the skunks in a subtle manner or by drowning himself in the watertank but somebody who'd given my Uncle Sol a Victor Victrola and records while he lived presented to him upon the auspicious occasion of his decease a scruptious not to mention splendiferous funeral with tall boys in black gloves and flowers and everything and i remember we all cried like the Missouri when my Uncle Sol's coffin lurched because somebody pressed a button (and down went my Uncle Sol and started a worm farm) -- e e cummings

I knew if I thought long enough I'd come up with a poem I've been moved to
memorize that isn't (insha'allah) on the Minstrels all ready.

I love e.e. cummings.  My favorite poem is "Anyone lived in a pretty how
town" (Poem #1260) which has the most beautiful melody of any poem I've ever
encountered.  But this is my second favorite.  How charming, the description
of Uncle Sol; how fitting and even touching that he won at last.  And as I
contemplate my occasional wins and my frequent losses in this world, it is
comforting to realize that no one can lose all the time.  Is it symbolic
that this perpetual loser is named after the sun -- and if so, how?  Or is
the poem merely straightforward?  Whatever else it does, it shows us a side
of cummings we rarely see -- his frivolous side.

Lisa

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In Just- -- e e cummings

Guest poem submitted by Kamalika Chowdhury :

(Poem #1635) In Just- in Just- spring when the world is mud- luscious the little lame balloonman whistles far and wee and eddieandbill come running from marbles and piracies and it's spring when the world is puddle-wonderful the queer old balloonman whistles far and wee and bettyandisbel come dancing from hop-scotch and jump-rope and it's spring and the goat-footed balloonMan whistles far and wee -- e e cummings

The Minstrels has a fair representation of Edward Estlin Cummings' work. I
can't add much to what has been variously said about the unique blend of
playful lyric, roller-coaster rhythm and the underlying wondrous melody that
spells Cummings. However, I think this poem deserves a mention, if only for
the world of innocence and sheer magic it effortlessly conjures. It's like
tumbling down the rabbit hole into a "mud-luscious", "puddle-wonderful"
spring.

IMHO, this poem showcases some of the artist's most tangible uses of tone
and space. Note the eye-catching momentum of the "goat-footed balloonMan".
Its just as easy to see bubbles stretch in liquid, drawn-out vowels, hear
the fading resonance of the whistle's "wee" and feel the "spring" when
"bettyanddisbel come dancing".

I have always felt that Cummings cannot be read at one go; his poetry always
demands at least a second-look. One reads the poem to absorb its flow, and
then again to spot its cleverly disguised nooks and crevices. In typical
Cummings style, even within the child-like naiveté of "In Just-", there are
shadows - nuances of transience, poignancy, perhaps loss. Interpretations
ranging from lurking evil (à la balloonman) to a permeating sense of regret
have been propounded. But to my perspective, the poem reads as a sort of
far-away, dreamy farewell to carefree just-spring.

Regards,
Kamalika.

[Minstrels Links]

e. e. cummings:
Poem #56, pity this busy monster, manunkind
Poem #139, Buffalo Bill's/ defunct
Poem #214, Where's Madge then,
Poem #311, Untitled
Poem #454, If I have made, my lady, intricate
Poem #492, Poem 42
Poem #619, somewhere i have never travelled
Poem #769, what if a much of a which of a wind
Poem #945, O sweet spontaneous
Poem #1072, next to of course god america I
Poem #1132, if everything happens that can't be done
Poem #1260, anyone lived in a pretty how town
Poem #1536, All in green went my love riding
Poem #1581, Little Tree
Poem #1628, suppose

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suppose -- e e cummings

Guest poem sent in by Aseem

(Poem #1628) suppose suppose Life is an old man carrying flowers on his head. young death sits in a cafe smiling, a piece of money held between his thumb and first finger (i say "will he buy flowers" to you and "Death is young life wears velour trousers life totters, life has a beard" i say to you who are silent. - "Do you see Life? he is there and here, or that, or this or nothing or an old man 3 thirds asleep, on his head flowers, always crying to nobody something about les roses les bluets yes, will He buy? Les belles bottes - oh hear , pas cheres") and my love slowly answered I think so. But I think I see someone else there is a lady, whose name is Afterwards she is sitting beside young death, is slender; likes flowers. -- e e cummings

Some people are just too smart for their own good. And E E Cummings is,
IMHO, one of them. Not that I don't get a kick out of his ingenious
punctuation, his intriguing line breaks, his frequently bizarre
spacing, his clever little witticisms ("3 thirds / asleep"). Reading
Cummings is like listening to some great jazz pianist at work - the
endlessness of his improvisations takes your breath away, the little
tone jokes make you laugh out in surprise.

Except that you get so caught up in these clever little tricks that you
never notice that underneath all that jazz is a sweet old melody.
Underneath Cummings' witty style is an incredible, singing,
old-fashioned poet, a master of image and emotion. Cummings writes
elsewhere "since feeling is first / he who pays attention / to the
syntax of things / will never wholly kiss you". And he who pays
attention to the syntax of cummings' poems will never wholly appreciate
them.

This poem is an excellent illustration: the punctuation and word play
are tame, by Cummings standards, but the image of life as a poor old
man selling flowers to a young, rich death is one of the cruellest and
most heartbreaking that I've ever come across, and Cummings draws you
deeper and deeper into the pathos, until that final two word line
leaves you with a sense of infinite hope. Pay attention to the syntax
here, and you'll see why this is a really clever poem. Ignore the
syntax and you'll see why it's a beautiful one.

Aseem

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Little Tree -- e e cummings

Guest poem sent in by Sasha Nyary

(Poem #1581) Little Tree little tree little silent Christmas tree you are so little you are more like a flower who found you in the green forest and were you very sorry to come away? see i will comfort you because you smell so sweetly i will kiss your cool bark and hug you safe and tight just as your mother would, only don't be afraid look the spangles that sleep all the year in a dark box dreaming of being taken out and allowed to shine, the balls the chains red and gold the fluffy threads, put up your little arms and i'll give them all to you to hold every finger shall have its ring and there won't a single place dark or unhappy then when you're quite dressed you'll stand in the window for everyone to see and how they'll stare! oh but you'll be very proud and my little sister and i will take hands and looking up at our beautiful tree we'll dance and sing "Noel Noel" -- e e cummings

I didn't see this in the archives and thought I'd suggest it in honor of the
season. I first read this poem in a lovely picture book that my six-year-old
daughter owns. I like the strong images and the personification of this
lonely, scared little tree that is adopted into the family and celebrated.
Of course what is unspoken is that it's going out in the trash on December 26!
But the tree doesn't have to know that.

Sasha Nyary

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All in green went my love riding -- e e cummings

Guest poem submitted by VG:

(Poem #1536) All in green went my love riding All in green went my love riding on a great horse of gold into the silver dawn. four lean hounds crouched low and smiling the merry deer ran before. Fleeter be they than dappled dreams the swift sweet deer the red rare deer. Four red roebuck at a white water the cruel bugle sang before. Horn at hip went my love riding riding the echo down into the silver dawn. four lean hounds crouched low and smiling the level meadows ran before. Softer be they than slippered sleep the lean lithe deer the fleet flown deer. Four fleet does at a gold valley the famished arrow sang before. Bow at belt went my love riding riding the mountain down into the silver dawn. four lean hounds crouched low and smiling the sheer peaks ran before. Paler be they than daunting death the sleek slim deer the tall tense deer. Four tall stags at a green mountain the lucky hunter sang before. All in green went my love riding on a great horse of gold into the silver dawn. four lean hounds crouched low and smiling my heart fell dead before. -- e e cummings

This poem begs to be recited, with its almost hypnotic rhythm and its
beautiful rippling phrases - 'dappled dreams' 'slippered sleep'. The scenes
evoked are dreamlike and misty, with the smiling hounds and the horse of
gold. I don't know how cummings does it, but whenever I read this poem I
give a deep sigh and go back to the beginning.

VG

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