Friday, January 16, 2009

A visit to Laurel Hill Cemetery, Philadelphia



V

gee i like to think of dead it means nearer because deeper firmer/ since darker than little round water at one end of the well it's/ too cool to be crooked and it's too firm to be hard but it's sharp/
and thick and it loves, every old thing falls in rosebugs and/ jackknives and kittens and pennies they all sit there looking at/ each other having the fastest time because they've never met before



dead's more even than how many ways of sitting on your head your/ unnatural hair has in the morning



dead's clever too like POF goes the alarm off and the little striker/ having the best time tickling away everybody's brain so everybody/ just puts out their finger and they stuff the poor thing all full/ of fingers



dead has a smile like the nicest man you've never met who maybe winks/ at you in a streetcar and you pretend you don't but really you do/ see and you are My how glad he winked and hope he'll do it again



or if it talks about you somewhere behind your back it makes your neck/ feel pleasant and stoopid and if dead says may i have this one and/ was never introduced you say Yes because you know you want it to dance/ with you and it wants to and it can dance and Whocares



dead's fine like hands do you see that water flowerpots in windows but/ they live higher in their house than you so that's all you see but you/ don't want to



dead's happy like the way underclothes All so differently solemn and/ inti and sitting on one string



dead never says my dear, Time for your musiclesson and you like music and/ to have somebody play who can but you know you never can and why have to?



dead's nice like a dance where you danced simple hours and you take all/ your prickly-clothes off and squeeze-into-largeness without one word and/ you lie still as anything in largeness and this largeness begins to give/ you,the dance all over again and you,feel all again all over the way men/ you liked made you feel when they touched you(but that's not all)because/ largeness tells you so you can feel what you made,men feel when,you touched,/ them



dead's sorry like a thistlefluff-thing which goes landing away all by/ himself on somebody's roof or something where who-ever-heard-of-growing/ and nobody expects you to anyway



dead says come with me he says(and whyevernot)into the round well and/ see the kitten and the penny and the jackknife and the rosebug/ and you/ say Sure you say (like that) sure i'll come with you you say for i/ like kittens i do and jackknives i do and pennies i do and rosebugs i do



-e. e. cummings (1925)

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& : SEVEN POEMS



Edit 3/4/09: check it

2 comments:

Nicole said...

As usual, that's amazing. I've never read that one before, and there is so much amazingness in it, like:

dead's nice like a dance where you danced simple hours and you take all/ your prickly-clothes off and squeeze-into-largeness without one word and

wow, thank youuuu!

Nicole said...

Ohh! I didn't notice that E.A. Smith on first look--that's scary or unsettling, or something.