EE Cummings

by Φ

Tulips & Chimneys


Thy fingers make early flowers of
all things.
they hair mostly the hours love:
a smoothness which
sings, saying
(though love be a day)
do not fear, we will go amaying.

thy whitest feet crisply are straying.
thy moist eyes are at kisses playing,
whose strangeness much
(though love be a day)
for which girl art though flowers bringing?

To be they lips is a sweet thing
and small.
Death,Thee i call rich beyond wishing
if this thou catch,
else missing.
(though love be a day
and life be nothing,it shall not stop kissing).


the sky a silver
dissonance by the correct
fingers of April

into a
clutter of trite jewels

now like a moth with stumbling

wings flutters and flops along the
grass collides with trees and
houses and finally,
butts into the river


my mind is
a big hunk of irrevocable nothing which touch and taste and smell
and hearing and sight keep hitting and chipping with sharp fatal
in an agony of sensual chisels i perform squirms of chrome and ex-
ecute strides of cobalt
nevertheless i
feel that i cleverly am being altered that i slightly am becoming
something a little different, in fact
Hereupon helpless i utter lilac shrieks and scarlet bellowings.


the waddling
madam star
taps.  “ready girls”.  the

unspontaneous streets
make bright their eyes
blind irisher fiddles a

scotch jig in a stinking
joyman bar
a cockney is
buying whiskies for a turk

a waiter intones:bloo-moo-n
hoppytoad  yesmam.  the

furious taximan
on his whistle somebody
says here’s luck

somebody else says down the hatch
the nigger smiles
the jew stands
beside his teddy-bears

the sailor shuffles the
night with fucking eyes
the great black preacher gargles jesus
the aesthete indulges

his soul for certain things which died
it is eighteen hundred

under the window
under the window
under the window walk

the unburied feet of
the little ladies more than dead


the moon is hiding in
her hair.
of heaven
full of all dreams,
draws down.

cover her briefness in singing
close her with intricate faint birds
by daisies and twilight
Deepen her,

upon her
the rain’s

pearls singly-whispering.


life boosts her rapidly at me

through sagging debris of exploded day
the hulking perpendicular mammal
grim epitome of chuckling flesh.
Weak thirsty fists of idiot futures bash

the bragging breasts,
puppy-faces to mouth
her ugly nipples squirming a pretty wrath,
gums skidding on slippery udders

lifts an impertinent puerperal face
and with astute fatuous swallowed eyes
one grin very distinctly wobbles
from the thinning lips me hugely which embrace.
as in the hairy notching of clenched thighs.

a friendless dingy female frenzy bubbles

Is 5

Two, III

“next of course god america i
love you land of the pilgrims’ and so forth oh
say can you see by the dawn’s early my
country ’tis of centuries come and go
and are no more what of it we should worry
in every language even deafanddumb
they sons acclaim your glorious name by gorry
by jingo by gee by gosh by gum
why talk of beauty what could be more beaut-
iful than these heroic happy dead
who rushed like lions to the roaring slaughter
did they not stop to think they died instead
then shall the voice of liberty be mute?”

He spoke.  And drank rapidly a glass of water.

73 Poems


“right here the other night something
odd occurred” charlie confessed
(halting) “a tall strong young
finelooking fellow,dressed

well but not over,stopped
me by ‘could you spare three cents please’
—why guess who nearly leaped
out of muchworseforwear shoes

‘fair friend’ we enlightened this stranger
‘some people have all the luck;
since our hero is quite without change,you’re
going to get one whole buck’

not a word this stranger replied—
but as one whole buck became his
(believe it or don’t)by god
down this stranger went on both knees”

green turns red(the roar
of traffic collapses:through
west ninth slowly cars pour
into sixth avenue)

“then” my voice marvels “what happened”
as everywhere red goes green
—groping blank sky with a blind
stare,he whispers “i ran”



I care not greatly
Should the world remember me
In some tomorrow.

There is a journey,
And who is for the long road
Loves not to linger.

For him the night calls,
OUt of the dawn and sunset
Who has made poems.