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Poetry

 

somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond

 

somewhere i have never travelled, 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 color 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 (2)

 

I Carry Your Heart With Me

 

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in

my heart)i am never without it(anywhere

i go you go,my dear;and whatever is done

by only me is your doing,my darling)

                                                      i fear

no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want

no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)

and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant

and whatever a sun will always sing is you

 

 

here is the deepest secret nobody knows

(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud

and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows

higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)

and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

 

 

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart) (2)

Since Feeling is First

 

since feeling is first
who pays any attention 
to the syntax of things
will never wholly kiss you;

wholly to be a fool 
while Spring is in the world
my blood approves,
and kisses are a better fate
than wisdom
lady i swear by all flowers. Don't cry
-the best gesture of my brain is less than 
your eyelids' flutterwhich says

we are for each other:then
laugh, leaning back in my arms
for life's not a paragraph
And death i think is no parenthesis (2)

In Just-

 

spring when the world is mud-

luscious the little

lame baloonman

 

whistles far and wee

 

and eddieandbill come

running from marbles and

piracies and it's

spring

 

when the world is puddle-wonderful

 

the queer

old baloonman whistles

far and wee

and bettyandisbel come dancing

 

from hop-scotch and jump-rope and

 

it's

spring

and

the

 

goat-footed

 

baloonMan whistles

far

and

wee (2)

 

 

I Like My Body When It Is With Your

 

i like my body when it is with your
body. it is so quite new a thing.
muscles better and nerves more.
i like your body. i like what it does,
i like its hows. i like to feel the spine
of your body and its bones, and the trembling
-firm-smooth ness and which i will
again and again and again
kiss,  i like kissing this and that of you,
i like, slowly stroking the, shocking fuzz
of your electric fur, and what-is-it comes
over parting flesh… and eyes big love-crumbs,

 

and possibly i like the thrill

 

ofunder me you so quite new (2)

 

 

I Will Wade Out

i will wade out
                        till my thighs are steeped in burning flowers
I will take the sun in my mouth
and leap into the ripe air
                                       Alive
                                                 with closed eyes
to dash against darkness
                                       in the sleeping curves of my body
Shall enter fingers of smooth mastery
with chasteness of sea-girls
                                            Will i complete the mystery
                                            of my flesh
I will rise
               After a thousand years
lipping
flowers
             And set my teeth in the silver of the moon (2)

I carry your heart with me (Audio)

In just (Audio)

somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond (Audio)

“So far as I am concerned, poetry and every other art was, is, and forever will be strictly and distinctly a question of individuality.”

—E.E. Cummings


 

“Whenever you think or you believe or you know, you're a lot of other people: but the moment you feel, you're nobody-but-yourself.”

― E.E. Cummings

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