- s7indicate3
- Aug 22, 2012
-
THUNDERDOME LOSER
|
Any love for my boy E.E. Cummings?? His unique poetic stylings inspired a generation of American poets. Granted, his stuff might appear inaccessible to someone unfamiliar with his oeuvre but I really urge goons to give it a good shot. As long as you keep yourself from trying to 'master' his poems you'll find that they are really quite beautiful. I'll post one I particularly like. Something about it brought me back to the innocence of my childhood.
EDIT: The formatting gets messed on the forum so I'll just link it here http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/176657
s7indicate3 fucked around with this message at 03:59 on Mar 17, 2016
|
#
¿
Mar 17, 2016 03:24
|
|
- Adbot
-
ADBOT LOVES YOU
|
|
|
#
¿
May 16, 2024 16:48
|
|
- s7indicate3
- Aug 22, 2012
-
THUNDERDOME LOSER
|
ee cummings owns. He's definitely my favorite poet
I love that visual poem. I see it as a leaf as it rocks back and forth before inevitably hitting the ground. All moments of its decent in suspension and immortalized through language. Also, trademark word-in-word play with "l(oneliness)". He kind of does it in this poem with "w(here)". Its a great poem and, despite its length and difficulty, I challenge people to give it a try.
Re-reading the poem I noticed what maybe is some interplay with "l(a" and "my father moved through dooms of love" with the line " My father moved through theys of we, / singing each new leaf out of each tree"
quote: my father moved through dooms of love
through sames of am through haves of give,
singing each morning out of each night
my father moved through depths of height
this motionless forgetful where
turned at his glance to shining here;
that if (so timid air is firm)
under his eyes would stir and squirm
newly as from unburied which
floats the first who, his april touch
drove sleeping selves to swarm their fates
woke dreamers to their ghostly roots
and should some why completely weep
my father’s fingers brought her sleep:
vainly no smallest voice might cry
for he could feel the mountains grow.
Lifting the valleys of the sea
my father moved through griefs of joy;
praising a forehead called the moon
singing desire into begin
joy was his song and joy so pure
a heart of star by him could steer
and pure so now and now so yes
the wrists of twilight would rejoice
keen as midsummer’s keen beyond
conceiving mind of sun will stand,
so strictly (over utmost him
so hugely) stood my father’s dream
his flesh was flesh his blood was blood:
no hungry man but wished him food;
no cripple wouldn’t creep one mile
uphill to only see him smile.
Scorning the Pomp of must and shall
my father moved through dooms of feel;
his anger was as right as rain
his pity was as green as grain
septembering arms of year extend
less humbly wealth to foe and friend
than he to foolish and to wise
offered immeasurable is
proudly and (by octobering flame
beckoned) as earth will downward climb,
so naked for immortal work
his shoulders marched against the dark
his sorrow was as true as bread:
no liar looked him in the head;
if every friend became his foe
he’d laugh and build a world with snow.
My father moved through theys of we,
singing each new leaf out of each tree
(and every child was sure that spring
danced when she heard my father sing)
then let men kill which cannot share,
let blood and flesh be mud and mire,
scheming imagine, passion willed,
freedom a drug that’s bought and sold
giving to steal and cruel kind,
a heart to fear, to doubt a mind,
to differ a disease of same,
conform the pinnacle of am
though dull were all we taste as bright,
bitter all utterly things sweet,
maggoty minus and dumb death
all we inherit, all bequeath
and nothing quite so least as truth
—i say though hate were why men breathe—
because my Father lived his soul
love is the whole and more than all
EDIT: Dropped more knowledge
s7indicate3 fucked around with this message at 21:03 on Mar 19, 2016
|
|
#
¿
Mar 19, 2016 20:40
|
|
- s7indicate3
- Aug 22, 2012
-
THUNDERDOME LOSER
|
Hey.
Anybody read Margaret Atwood's poetry? I just finished The Handmaid's Tale and enjoyed it, so now I'm curious to read her poetry, although I don't know what it's like.
Atwood's poetry is all similar in nature. Usually she takes a feminist angle on patriarchal mythology to dimensionalize female figures in mythology. My favourite in that genre is : http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/detail/32778
That being said, as a Canadian literature student I have had to read a lot of Atwood and can report that the poem that mostly gets taught is "Tricks With Mirrors", which for whatever reason lacks a poetry foundation page. So here it is
quote: Tricks with Mirrors
i
It's no coincidence
this is a used
furniture warehouse.
I enter with you
and become a mirror.
Mirrors
are the perfect lovers,
that's it, carry me up the stairs
by the edges, don't drop me,
that would be back luck,
throw me on the bed
reflecting side up,
fall into me,
it will be your own
mouth you hit, firm and glassy,
your own eyes you find you
are up against closed closed
ii
There is more to a mirror
than you looking at
your full-length body
flawless but reversed,
there is more than this dead blue
oblong eye turned outwards to you.
Think about the frame.
The frame is carved, it is important,
it exists, it does not reflect you,
it does not recede and recede, it has limits
and reflections of its own.
There's a nail in the back
to hang it with; there are several nails,
think about the nails,
pay attention to the nail
marks in the wood,
they are important too.
iii
Don't assume it is passive
or easy, this clarity
with which I give you yourself.
Consider what restraint it
takes: breath withheld, no anger
or joy disturbing the surface
of the ice.
You are suspended in me
beautiful and frozen, I
preserve you, in me you are safe.
It is not a trick either,
it is a craft:
mirrors are crafty.
iv
I wanted to stop this,
this life flattened against the wall,
mute and devoid of colour,
built of pure light,
this life of vision only, split
and remote, a lucid impasse.
I confess: this is not a mirror,
it is a door
I am trapped behind.
I wanted you to see me here,
say the releasing word, whatever
that may be, open the wall.
Instead you stand in front of me
combing your hair.
v
You don't like these metaphors.
All right:
Perhaps I am not a mirror.
Perhaps I am a pool.
Think about pools.
|
|
#
¿
Jun 14, 2016 14:56
|
|
#
¿
Mar 17, 2016 03:24
