so i'm not one for poetry

I'm really not. If I'm reading poetry that rhymes, I miss the meaning, because I'm so caught up on the rhymes most of the time. When I'm listening to music, most of the lyrics don't really stand out. I sing them and sing them until I get them if they sound good, but other than that, if you ask me what a song is about, I generally can't even tell you.

But I love, love, love E.E. Cummings. Just the way he writes. The crazy stuff that I can't understand? Not so much. But the way he divides words is like putting a puzzle together, and makes you really pay attention to the words. And he loves (or loved) so deeply, you can tell.

i love you much(most beautiful darling_
more than anyone on eath and i
like you better than everything in the sky
--sunlight and singing welcome your coming
although winter may be everywhere
with such a silence and such a darkness
noone can quite begin to guess
(except my life)the true time of year--
and if what calls itself a world should have
the luck to hear such singing (or glimpse such
sunlight as will leap higher than high
through gayer than gayest someone's heart at your each
nearerness)everyone certainly would(my
most beautiful darling)believe in nothing but love


I love the way he loves.
It's just...I don't say this enough, but I truly do love everyone (well, almost everyone) in my life. And when I read these poems, I realize what else I'm missing.

Here's another little poem to leave you with, because I'm just in the mood for goodness (and long posts, apparently):

i am a little church (no great cathedral)
far from the splendor and squalor of hurrying cities
--i do not worry if briefer days grow briefest,
i am not sorry when sun and rain make april

my life is the life of the reaper and the sower;
my prayers are prayers of earth's own clumsily striving
(finding and losing and laughing and crying)children
whose any sadness or joy is my grief or my gladness

around me surges a mircale of unceasing
birth and glory and death and resurrection:
over my sleeping self float flaming symbols
of hope, and i wake to a perfect patience of mountains

i am a little church (far from the frantic
world with its rapture and aguish)at peace with nature
--i do not worry if longer nights grow longest;
i am not sorry when silence becomes singing

winter by spring, i life my diminutive spire to
merciful Him Whose only now is forever:
standing erect in the deathless truth of His presence
(welcoming humbly His light and proudly His darkness).




Alright then. I think that's enough of a mind explosion for now.