(Source: every-new-beginning)
(Source: every-new-beginning)
all ignorance toboggans into know
and trudges up to ignorance again:
but winter’s not forever,even snow
melts;and if spring should spoil the game,what then?
all history’s a winter sport or three:
but were it five,i’d still insist that all
history is too small for even me;
for me and you,exceedingly too small.
Swoop(shrill collective myth)into thy grave
merely to toil the scale to shrillerness
per every madge and mabel dick and dave
—tomorrow is our permanent address
and there they’ll scarcely find us(if they do,
we’ll move away still further:into now
(Source: meganparnell)
no man,if men are gods;but if gods must
be men,the sometimes only man is this
(most common,for each anguish is his grief;
and,for his joy is more than joy,most rare)
a fiend,if fiends speak truth;if angels burn
by their own generous completely light,
an angel;or(as various worlds he’ll spurn
rather than fail immeasurable fate)
coward,clown,traitor,idiot,dreamer,beast-
such was a poet and shall be and is
-who’ll solve the depths of horror to defend
a sunbeam’s architecture with his life:
and carve immortal jungles of despair
to hold a mountain’s heartbeat in his hand
alive we’re alive on Flickr.
hate blows a bubble of despair into
hugeness world system universe and bang
-fear buries a tomorrow under woe
and up comes yesterday most green and toung
pleasure and pain are merely surfaces
(one itself showing,itself hiding one)
life’s only and true value neither is
love makes the little thickness of the coin
comes here a man would have from madame death
neverless now and without winter spring?
she’ll spin that spirit her own fingers with
and give him nothing(if he should not sing)
how much more than enough for both of us
darling. And if i sing you are my voice,
(Source: sailingships-)
along the brittle treacherous bright streets
of memory comes my heart singing like
an idiot whispering like drunken man
who(at a certain corner suddenly)meets
the tall policeman of my mind.
awake
being not asleep elsewhere our dreams began
which now are folded:but the year completes
his life as a forgotten prisoner
-“Ici?”-“Ah non mon chéri;il fait trop froid”-
they are gone:along these gardens moves a wind br
inging
rain and leaves filling the air with fear
and sweetness….pauses. (Halfwhispering….half
singing
stirs the always smiling chevaux de bois)
when you were in Paris we met here
never could anyone
who simply lives to die
dream that your valentine
makes happier me than i
but always everything
which only dies to grow
can guess and as for spring
she’ll be the first to know
-E.E. Cummings
(Source: pourtrait)
from “Non-Lectures” || e.e. cummings at Harvard University in 1952
I want all of you to take a minute to imagine what it might be like to have a speaking voice that sounds so proper and intelligent and melodic.
(Source: wellmakesmokesignals)
