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yeah yeah I know, another poem. I found this one when I was looking in a book about American literature from the past century, and I knew E.E.Cummings from class, so I read some more of his work. I :inlove: this one:


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

e.e.cummings


edit: many thanks to Milan for always giving me nice comments :p :hug:
 
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I always post nice comments too :p for this particular poem, i'll be particularly nice.

:yawn: :yawn: :yawn:

sorry :lol:
 
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ok, Freya asked for a more constructive criticism of the poem, so here goes...

basically, i take the bulk of the poem to show this girl (yes, i assume the author is talking about a girl though it may be a baby or something else) as having a strange control over the author, presumably as he loves her so much. Like, she can see everything about him and he can't hide things from her. This is fully established after 2 verses, yet he continues to say the same thing (not going into detail, simply changing the words) throughout the 3rd verse.
Then comes:
"whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing"

which i'm afraid means very little :shrug:

"nobody,not even the rain, has such small hands"

the rain doesn't have hands (if this is his point then why not say sun/mist etc) and it's not a good metaphor.

I think after a couple of promising verses, the poet realises that he can go no further and so repeats himself and begins rambling nonsense as so many poets turn to.

That's why i yawned, and that's my textual analysis :p
 
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