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 easily will 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 colour 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
I discovered e.e cummings because someone on Facebook a few years ago published a verse of one of his poems. that verse was enough to captivate me and all his work, pretty obvious as many I stay with this from above. Anarchic, playful and orderly messy, Cummings wrote at his own pace and surprised that he did not reinvent the words. To understand this poem, you have to read it several times and if a phrase makes you stop, it's okay, this poet wrote for him and not to please any audience.
Somewhere I could be with me and you, this place is enclosed in your eyes which is I cannot get in without a kiss
a kiss from your mind (in my sweetest and fastest dreams )
