happy birthday

… listen:there's a hell
of a good universe next door;let's go

edward estlin cummings was born 99 years ago today. sadly, cummings died in 1962, before the advent of desktop publishing — which he likely would have put to better use than anyone before or since.

my undergrad lit thesis was on cummings and yeats. we had to do yeats&someone because our seminar prof was a yeats obsessive and he wasn't thrilled that i considered e.e. worthy of mentioning in the same sentence as w.b. "yeats is, by far, the greater poet," he told me. "perhaps," i said, "but cummings is a lot funnier." i got a B+.

in honor of cummings' birthdate, here are two selections, the first of which really needs to be read aloud.

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

— e.e. cummings, 1940

= = = = =

i am a beggar always
who begs in your mind

(slightly smiling,patient,unspeaking
with a sign on his
breast
BLIND)yes i

am this person of whom somehow
you are never wholly rid(and who

does not ask for more than
just enough dreams to
live on)
. . . . . . after all,kid

you might as well
toss him a few thoughts

a little love preferably,
anything which you can't
pass off on other people:for
instance a
plugged promise–

then he will maybe(hearing something
fall into his hat)go wandering
after it with fingers;till having

found
what was thrown away
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . himself
taptaptaps out of your brain,hopes,life

to(carefully turning a
corner)never bother you any more.

— e.e. cummings