Best Cummings Poems
E.E.CUMMINGS AND I
I remember a beautiful, Spring
day in Chicago.
Sitting on my lover's lap.
His eyes as lovely as the spring-
green trees tapping gently on my
living room windows.
His lips velvety as the roses on
Montrose Avenue, that day in May
And, I, reading him, E.E. Cummings
poem, "Since Feeling is First."
That one single poem my life did
change me, forevermore!
"He who worries about the syntax
of things, will never truly kiss you."
Ah~ how right E.E.Cummings was.
I was and I still am ecstatic with:
"Wholly to be a fool in the world,
my blood approves."
"And kisses are a better fate than
wisdom, lady, I swear by all the
flowers."
How very true we were that day
to E.E, Cummings line:
"Then laugh, leaning back in my
my arms"
God Bless you, EE!
"For life in not a paragraph, and
death is no parenthesis."
My life jettisoned after that day.
Forever, am I lost in a love capsule.
And hoped a poet, I would one day be.
Panagiota Romios
11/7/2019
believe you me sirandmiss
a country made of this
youIItthem(a blended cocktail conspiracy)
you, Land of Calvin
Klein peacoat peacocks and Maybelline
Girl with cryproof mascara dripping(fashion
-first step lacking substance(of you
I sing: land of Oliver North and Ellen Degenerous
land of malcontent:singing(quietly)humming
cooking cuisine in add-one-minute-microwave
fashion. Shaving with grandfathers
dull razors: regifted dull past-tense,
passe(useless musings) all and every
voice:merrier men singing old songs
for yesterday dancesteps contradict
wants for(pleading) a progressive and peaceful
now. Rome then leaned on decayed pillars
now: chasing barbarian hordless lands
are stray grazing(starved weak) seeking,
singing A-
mer
i
ca, I mourn
you and every-one-of-millions
bitter wanting back gifts given
continually. Awash in(apathetic)
angst:whispers-peaceful-timid-unichs
let freedom echo
hollow. xanex glazed eyelid
americans (sitting in assigned seat,
from a menu)
eating
screaming meekly.
a pencil, slender and sleek,
whispers secrets on the page,
its graphite tip, a dancer's toe,
tracing lines of thought, unencumbered.
it dances across the paper's stage,
twirling and swirling in graceful arcs,
a silent symphony of words and shapes,
unfolding the mysteries of the mind.
its lead, a conductor's baton,
conducting the orchestra of ideas,
scribbling melodies of inspiration,
in the language of graphite and wood.
oh, pencil, humble and unassuming,
you hold the power to create,
to give life to thoughts and dreams,
with each stroke, a world takes shape.
so let us cherish this simple tool,
this wand of possibility and expression,
for in its simplicity, it holds the key,
to unlock the wonders of imagination.
somewhere i have never traveled, 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 e.e. cummings
~
________________________________________________
" LV means Love"
contrasting winds which carried particles
of who we used to be
circled and settled. to fold into one
...becoming us...
that you are me...and i am you..
two hearts, one sun, one moon, that built a love
where twists and bends, would melt into one,
where eyes can't see where threads connect;
a solid rock, yet soft as feathers
where I can come to lay my head
and cast away the darkest day, the cruelest night
never will we understand
the shifts and strains of wayward winds
that whirl, and pound on fate's own door
the knowing why is not what counts, what matters deeply more...
is when I reach my hand to touch
this vaporous thing...impossible to define
where mortal words can not explain
nothing to see, nothing to touch,
just the faint breath of us
a dream, not myth....that final sleep cannot erase....
so sure this breath of life we share
is reason enough, that we are here
..............................................................................................................
For Joann's Contest "Copy Cat" My poem inspired by e.e. cummings poem LVII
An off-day for the quill: I’m channel surfing
from a carpeted beach beneath beveled
canopy. My legs haplessly dangle flung
overboard crossing a comfortable
black leather partition provided by Sears.
On CNN there’s a bow legged French horn
wearing white face apologizing for American
abundance above the ticking measures
of Cold War success. Spare me, Christiane.
Thirsty, I have the maid fetch me a fresh Coke
and resume my voyeuristic voyage downstream
through high-definition static and spoken
saturation. Eddie Cummings flips a knowing wink
then sweeps the tulips from a chimney’s dream.
4/27/17
Dennis Cummings
1844-1920
To my friends of the 41st Infantry!
My men, my brave brothers from Wisconsin, are invited!
Invited RSVP to my domesticated, but dignified digs
On south Milton Street in Whittier town,
There, above the tracks of the Southern Pacific
There, surrounded by my better half’s tulips and pumpkins
There, surrounded by unequivocal respect and love
Of my loyal and nagging better half, Ellen, and
Of my dutiful and loyal son, Lee Roy.
There is a window upstairs facing north,
North to the rising green hills of Whittier town,
North even to the Stars and Stripes
Of my Wisconsin brothers
Of my fellow Wisconsin freedom fighters!
Nightly there, I light a candle for my friends.
My intrepid men, my brave brothers!
Those charging advancing storming souls
Those rampaging, death-staring warriors of the 41st!
Like the fiercely flowing rapids of the Tennessee
There in Chattanooga, and thereabouts,
My brothers and my friends braved the bullets,
Faced the fusillade of fire, the unspeakable violence, and
Even found glorious sacrifice,
Found glorious death in battle,
In the suffocating smoke and sulfur
Of fifty thousand muskets.
Yes, you are invited my brothers! My friends!
Come to my humble home here on South Milton Street
And look to the upstairs window.
There is a candle burning there for you.
Burning with respectful gratitude.
Burning with a proud silence
For my brave brothers,
The storming rampaging men of the 41st.
i have wandered the dusty back roads of my youth
cut through cotton fields that screamed their brutal truth
crossed the burning sticky blacktops in bare feet
drank honeysuckle nectar-each drop hot and sweet
the southern summer's cloying--relentlessly hot
now i know these childhood days were my Camelot
i knew every alley--shortcut--and hidden path
i was myself then-in my hometown-in the past
i have traveled the superhighways ten lanes wide
lost myself in a city--miles from side to side
i have wandered Alpine glens and climbed their peaks
on borrowed time measured bitterly in mere weeks
my children are reduced to--murmurs on the phone
yes-i can tell you why most people die alone
i guess i don't think i will live to get that old
to have to wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled
and now i notice the road's begun to narrow
feel the trauma of my lifetime in my marrow
i note the edges of my vision growing dim
feel death's determined hold firmly from within
i feel unfocused--my brain on auto-pilot
my sleep is deep and dreamless and deathly quiet
the trees enclose--the road's a tunnel--cool within
the ancient Spanish moss absolves me of my sins
once set upon this road there is no turning back
with great apathy i acknowledge this as fact
©Danielle White
There was a poem that tugged at my mind,
Things I have thought time after time.
When I was at my lowest,as deep as I could get,
Way down at the bottom is where I thought I set.
But then I looked around,seen some things I never seen,
Alot of other people have been stuck there in between.
I cried and pleaded for help,none was to be found,
And the more I cried and pleaded,the further I went down.
But then it hit me,I was living by others expectations.
So I did an amazing thing,I altered the situation.
I started living for me,lifting up my pride,
Not caring what others thought,I started living inside.
I still loved my family and all of my friends,
But living to their expectations,thats where it ends.
Money,greed,and possesions,thats what most people need,
But it's the human race, that really plants that seed.
Alot need to live like kings and be invited to the ball,
If thats what it takes to live,I guess I never lived at all.
Almost every day I think of you,
My sweetheart all the time.
You are that special someone,
Can’t live without your chime.
Underneath the oak tree,
Morning noon or night.
My Amy Cummings sits,
I think of her tonight.
Nothing can come between us,
Goodness fills are hearts,
Still I stop and ask myself,”” why are we still apart”””
since writing is being,
who the hell am I,
measuring meter,
caring about perfect rhyme,
an attention seeker
trying to impress
writing is being
breathing
unreeling
unraveling
unearthing
seeing
hearing
smelling
touching
feeling
e.e.
("since feeling is first
he who pays any attention
to the syntax of things
will never wholly kiss you;") *
since writing is being
can I just
be
stop pretending
and wholly kiss
me
if I can't
how will I ever
wholly kiss you
* From "since feeling is first" by E.E. Cummings
e e cummings a LEAF
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here came cummings at thirteen
an iconoclast when ikons (in a
russian sense) for me only
could stimulate edward estlin with his
speakeasy disdain at a time when
cash and cosby still swayed liberated
my captive sensibility but wait
there
was
more…
williams with his wheel barrow
red rain and white chickens
so much depended on joyces
confabulation of language modern
once along with living by
green stein and anderson and
papa plain faulkner southern
strange pounds petals recall
basho dragonfly cuckoo cicada
in
no
time
symmetry matters
© 2014 by Michael Jones
10/7/2023
A classical poet, indeed, you are not.
An intellectual poet, spare me the lot!!
Fingers that knew well,humanity’s heart .
Poetry that freed me from, dead stoic art .
Freedom to be, who we are was your song.
“Since feeling is first,”I do hum, all day long!
Intellectualism, bores this poet to tears!
Lying with my love on summer’s grass my heart cheers.
I shall love you, e.e, Cummings, till my final breath.
Your poetry, I will value and love until the day of my death.
You gave me the ultimate freedom to really be me,
I think of you always when writing good poetry.
Your sensuous lines…..“Since feeling is first,”
Allowed me to surpass intellectuality, it’s life that I thirst!”
My love and respect,
Panagiota Romios
"I carry your heart with me (I carry it in my heart)
I am never without it" quote - E.E. Cummings
poetess
pursued her wordplay
for pleasure
and God's praise -
powerful, peace-filled thoughts from
Connie Marcum Wong.
Wong's music
heavenly welcome
to wisdom.
Humor's wit
in the wake of her spirit
warms our weary world.
September 24, 2022
Theme: Lost to Heaven - Connie Marcum Wong
Contest: Writing Challenge: In My Heart, S Form (Shardorma)
Sponsor: Constance LaFrance
e e cummings a poet, i be
this is how i found my u s p
in verse to be so 'original'
lower case & in the vertical