Poem: "the cambridge ladies who live in furnished souls", by e. e. cummings

the Cambridge ladies who live in furnished souls
are unbeautiful and have comfortable minds
(also, with the church's protestant blessings
daughters, unscented shapeless spirited)
they believe in Christ and Longfellow,both dead,
are invariably interested in so many things-
at the present writing one still finds
delighted fingers knitting for the is it Poles?
perhaps. While permanent faces coyly bandy
scandal of Mrs. N and Professor D
....the Cambridge ladies do not care,above
Cambridge if sometimes in its box of
sky lavender and cornerless, the
moon rattles like a fragment of angry candy

More things should rattle like fragments of angry candy. And, like a Cambridge lady living in a furnished soul, I, too believe in Longfellow.

Poem: "since feeling is first", e.e. cummings

Well, counting is apparently beyond me (or I was just really tired), but I actually get to post three more e.e. cummings poems before his time is up and I switch to someone else (Wallace Stevens, ladies and gentlemen!) Here's a less famous, but much more representative poem, by e.e. cummings; it's beloved by myself and several of my friends.

since feeling is first

who pays any attention

to the syntax of things

will never wholly kiss you;

wholly to be a fool

while Spring is in the world

my blood approves,

and kisses are a better fate

than wisdom

lady i swear by all flowers. Don't cry

—the best gesture of my brain is less than

your eyelids' flutter which says

we are for each other: then

laugh, leaning back in my arms

for life's not a paragraph

And death i think is no parenthesis

Look at the reference to Spring: that's a really characterisitc cummings move. And this is one of his classic, touching love poems. If you haven't liked the cummings thus far, this is what most of his poetry is actually like.

Poem: "pity this busy monster manunkind" by e e cummings

pity this busy monster,manunkind,

not.  Progress is a comfortable disease:
your victum(death and life safely beyond)

plays with the bigness of his littleness
-electrons deify one razorblade
into a mountainrange;lenses extend

unwish through curving wherewhen until unwish
returns on its unself.
         A world of made
is not a world of born-pity poor flesh

and trees,poor stars and stones,but never this
fine specimen of hypermagical

ultraomnipotence.  We doctors know

a hopeless case if-listen:there's a hell
of a good universe next door;let's go.

I love the last idea of this one: "listen: there's a hell/of a good universe next door; let's go." The idea of being able to pack it up and go next door when things aren't going well is entrancing. And "hypermagical ultraomnipotence" is just a fantastic phrase.

This is e.e. cummings in a different, more cosmic mood than we've seen him. There's only one more day of e e cummings left to go, and that will have to be a love poem, simply because that comprises so much of his work.

Poem: "buffalo bill's defunct" by e.e. cummings

Buffalo Bill's
defunct
       who used to
       ride a watersmooth-silver
                                stallion
and break onetwothreefourfive pigeonsjustlikethat
                                                 Jesus
he was a handsome man
                     and what i want to know is
how do you like your blueeyed boy
Mister Death

I haven't really done anything to buck the "not actually representative e.e. cummings poetry" trend, have I?

Poem: "nobody loses all the time" by e e cummings/cooking/a question or two

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
scrumptious 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)

Here's another e.e. cummings poem! I fear that I'm giving the people in my audience who don't know a whole lot about e.e. cummings a bad idea of what most of his poetry is like; maybe I can rectify that by writing about him tomorrow in lieu of a book review.

In other news, we're making some awesome sauerbraten for my grandfather's 77th birthday tonight. It has to brine for two days and be turned twice each of those days, so that may give an idea of what's involved here.

If I wrote about about some stuff from philosophy, would you enjoy reading that? Or should I stick to book reviews?

Poem: "anyone lived in a pretty how town," by e.e. cummings

anyone lived in a pretty how town
(with up so floating many bells down)
spring summer autumn winter
he sang his didn't he danced his did

Women and men(both little and small)
cared for anyone not at all
they sowed their isn't they reaped their same
sun moon stars rain

children guessed(but only a few
and down they forgot as up they grew
autumn winter spring summer)
that noone loved him more by more

when by now and tree by leaf
she laughed his joy she cried his grief
bird by snow and stir by still
anyone's any was all to her

someones married their everyones
laughed their cryings and did their dance
(sleep wake hope and then)they
said their nevers they slept their dream

stars rain sun moon
(and only the snow can begin to explain
how children are apt to forget to remember
with up so floating many bells down)

one day anyone died i guess
(and noone stooped to kiss his face)
busy folk buried them side by side
little by little and was by was

all by all and deep by deep
and more by more they dream their sleep
noone and anyone earth by april
wish by spirit and if by yes.

Women and men(both dong and ding)
summer autumn winter spring
reaped their sowing and went their came

sun moon stars rain

Something more substantive later, my dear readers, I hope. But at least the "poem every day" project hasn't yet collapsed. In the meantime, I'm off to the store to pick up things for my grandfather's birthday cake, but I think I feel a meditation on art coming on.

Poem: "i sing of olaf glad and big"

i sing of Olaf glad and big
whose warmest heart recoiled at war:
a conscientious object-or

his wellbelovéd colonel(trig
westpointer most succinctly bred)
took erring Olaf soon in hand; 
but--though an host of overjoyed 
noncoms(first knocking on the head 
him)do through icy waters roll 
that helplessness which others stroke
with brushes recently employed 
anent this muddy toiletbowl, 
while kindred intellects evoke 
allegiance per blunt instruments--
Olaf(being to all intents
a corpse and wanting any rag 
upon what God unto him gave) 
responds,without getting annoyed 
"I will not kiss your fucking flag"

straightway the silver bird looked grave
(departing hurriedly to shave)

but--though all kinds of officers 
(a yearning nation's blueeyed pride) 
their passive prey did kick and curse
until for wear their clarion  
voices and boots were much the worse, 
and egged the firstclassprivates on
his rectum wickedly to tease 
by means of skilfully applied
bayonets roasted hot with heat--
Olaf(upon what were once knees)
does almost ceaselessly repeat
"there is some shit I will not eat"

our president,being of which
assertions duly notified  
threw the yellowsonofabitch
into a dungeon,where he died

Christ(of His mercy infinite)
i pray to see;and Olaf,too

preponderatingly because
unless statistics lie he was
more brave than me:more blond than you.

Before this blog, I had a couple of abortive attempts at posting a poem a day. I'm not sure that that's going to work out this time, so no promises. But here is a first attempt, a poem by a great favorite of mine, e.e. cummings. "I sing of olaf glad and big" is a poem about the detrimental affects of the military on a young man, but also about that same young man's defiance in the face of what we can all only assume is sodomy with a hot poker. I hope to post six more e.e. cummings poems this week!