Photograph by László Szalai
From the wonderful site, moving poems, a little videopoem that captures E. E. Cummings as the true romantic he was. One might think the pace a bit languid, but there is the point, or at least a number of them, which may be re-examined a little more closely as they pirouette in slow motion across the screen of the soul.
somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond
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 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
- E. E. Cummings
Rain by Karol Hiller
--------------------
morning's first thing--
on praying hands
the spring rain
Issa
translated by David G. Lanoue
best,
Don
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