somewhere i have never travelled by e.e. cummings

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, skillfully, 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

Some thoughts…

on the Poet:  E.E. Cummings (1894-1962) was born in Cambridge, Massachusetts. He was already writing poetry by the age of ten, and did his B.A. and M.A. at Harvard. He served in World War 1, but became ardently anti-war later in life. During his lifetime, Cummings received numerous honors, and was widely read. By the time of his death, his popularity was second only to Robert Frost.

on his Poetry: Cummings experimented with the rules of syntax and grammar, and evolved a highly individualistic style that made his poetry instantly recognizable, as for instance his casual dispensation with the use of the upper case. He did receive some criticism for this brazen flouting of the venerable art of writing, but it must have struck a chord with his readers. 

on this Poem:

(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

…………………………………………………………………………Please excuse the long pause. I can’t help dissolving into a puddle on reading these lines.

Spring brings rain, and is synonymous with love, and this is one exquisite poem of love – achingly tender, intimate, and vulnerable. This is why we say thanks to poets - for giving voice to that which most of us can’t even begin to express.