Shares: There is more than just 'i carry your heart with me'

I have, for a long time now, loved e.e.cummings. I think I could claim him as my favorite poet, easily. I have read 2 or three full novel sized works of his poems, and always find something new and just enthralling with his work.

I have decided to post a few of my favorite works by him, because I think the world should love him as I do.

suppose... (VIII)

by E. E. Cummings

suppose

Life is an old man carrying flowers on his head.

young death sits in a cafe

smiling, a pierce 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.

somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond

by E. E. Cummings

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 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