Some e e cummings Poems

Here are five poems I like - the first four are very well known to readers of cummings, the last less so, though typical of his powerful erotic verse.

E E Cummings, anyone lived in a pretty how town

anyone lived in a pretty how town

(with up so floating many bells down)

spring summer autumn winter

he sang his didn't he danced his did

Women and men(both little and small)

cared for anyone not at all

they sowed their isn't they reaped their same

sun moon stars rain

children guessed(but only a few

and down they forgot as up they grew

autumn winter spring summer)

that noone loved him more by more

when by now and tree by leaf

she laughed his joy she cried his grief

bird by snow and stir by still

anyone's any was all to her

someones married their everyones

laughed their cryings and did their dance

(sleep wake hope and then)they

said their nevers they slept their dream

stars rain sun moon

(and only the snow can begin to explain

how children are apt to forget to remember

with up so floating many bells down)

one day anyone died i guess

(and noone stooped to kiss his face)

busy folk buried them side by side

little by little and was by was

all by all and deep by deep

and more by more they dream their sleep

noone and anyone earth by april

wish by spirit and if by yes.

Women and men(both dong and ding)

summer autumn winter spring

reaped their sowing and went their came

sun moon stars rain

E E Cummings,  Buffalo Bill ’s

               

Buffalo Bill ’s

defunct

            who used to

            ride a watersmooth-silver

                                                stallion

and break onetwothreefourfive pigeonsjustlikethat

                                                              Jesus

he was a handsome man

                                and what i want to know is

how do you like your blueeyed boy

Mister Death

 

E. E. Cummings, i sing of Olaf glad and big

i sing of Olaf glad and big

whose warmest heart recoiled at war:

a conscientious object-or

his wellbelovéd colonel(trig

westpointer most succinctly bred)

took erring Olaf soon in hand;

but--though an host of overjoyed

noncoms(first knocking on the head

him)do through icy waters roll

that helplessness which others stroke

with brushes recently employed

anent this muddy toiletbowl,

while kindred intellects evoke

allegiance per blunt instruments--

Olaf(being to all intents

a corpse and wanting any rag

upon what God unto him gave)

responds,without getting annoyed

"I will not kiss your fucking flag"

straightway the silver bird looked grave

(departing hurriedly to shave)

but--though all kinds of officers

(a yearning nation's blueeyed pride)

their passive prey did kick and curse

until for wear their clarion           

voices and boots were much the worse,

and egged the firstclassprivates on

his rectum wickedly to tease

by means of skilfully applied

bayonets roasted hot with heat--

Olaf(upon what were once knees)

does almost ceaselessly repeat

"there is some shit I will not eat"

our president,being of which

assertions duly notified

threw the yellowsonofabitch

into a dungeon,where he died

Christ(of His mercy infinite)

i pray to see;and Olaf,too

preponderatingly because

unless statistics lie he was

more brave than me:more blond than you.

E. E. Cummings, my father moved through dooms of love

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

yes 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

E. E. Cummings, When You Went Away It Was Morning

when you went away it was morning

(that is,big horses;light feeling up

streets;heels taking derbies (where?) a pup

hurriedly hunched over swill;one butting

trolley imposingly empty;snickering

shop doors unlocked by white-grub

faces) clothes in delicate hubbub

as you stood thinking of anything,

maybe the world….But i have wondered since

isn’t it odd of you really to lie

a sharp agreeable flower between my

amused legs

               kissing with little dints

of april,making the obscene shy

breasts tickle,laughing when i wilt and wince