An e. e. cummings Poem For Valentine's Day

I will never forget reading e. e. cummings' poem "anyone lived in a pretty how town" my sophomore year in high school. His poetry, so different from anything else I'd ever heard, rocked my world. Cummings ignored convention in favor of exploration in everything from punctuation to capitalization. Although this is a short post, it's a fantastic Valentine's Day post because e. e. cummings writes about love better than anyone else. To prove it, my favorite of  his poems about love -- and possibly my favorite poem of all:

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

 Poem courtesy of Poets.org. 

 Happy Valentine's Day! Hope you and yours are enjoying the day.

And happy reading, of course!

Mother's Day: An e. e. cummings Tribute

My gorgeous mother with new grandbaby, my nephew Jude

My mother is a woman "more precious than rubies" in so many ways. In addition to possessing a loving, giving spirit which is a constant inspiration to me, she has also surrounded me by a group of strong women who act as "second mothers" to me. Some of these have been family members: her sister -- my wonderful Aunt Carole (and my namesake); my two grandmothers and my great-grandmother (my paternal grandmother's mother) who lived to nearly 100; my paternal grandmother's half a dozen sisters -- "great"-aunts in more than one way; her first cousins Melba and Marsha, who were more like sisters to her and aunts to me.
Others have been my mother's good friends -- mothers of my playmates, fellow teachers, church members from various congregations, and now her prayer group members, to whom that label is really a misnomer.

"Prayer group members" conjures a picture of pious women who meet once a week or once a month to discuss Biblical issues only. My mother's friends, and my "second mothers", are involved in every aspect of each others' lives. They pray together, surely; but they also eat, laugh, swim, vacation, shop, and work (in some instances) together. And they are there for one another not only in good times (vacation, shopping, eating), but in hard times as well. Divorce, cancer, and even death have affected their tightly-knit group, and through it all they remain exactly where they want to be -- by each others' sides. They have all acted in one way or another "motherly" towards me, but most of all, my mother's including me in some of their activities has allowed me to experience the richness of character that is their example. How to be loving, caring women -- and isn't that the true definition of a mother? "One who cares for..."?

The following is a poem that makes me think of my mother and all the wisdom she has imparted upon me. I am not a huge lover of poetry, but e. e. cummings is one of my favorites. Here is cummings's poem to his own mother, and so I may steal the sentiment:

if there are any heavens my mother will(all by herself)have
one.  It will not be a pansy heaven nor
a fragile heaven of lilies-of-the-valley but
it will be a heaven of blackred roses

my father will be(deep like a rose
tall like a rose)

standing near my
(swaying over her
silent)
with eyes which are really petals and see

nothing with the face of a poet really which
is a flower and not a face with
hands
which whisper
This is my beloved my
            (suddenly in sunlight

he will bow,

& the whole garden will bow)
So with those words from e. e. cummings, happy Mother's Day to my own mother and to all the other mothers out there who struggle each day to do the best they can by their children, whether those be biological children or  just children who they "adopt" and take under their wings. (Notably, my sister-in-law, who is a new mommy this year!)

My beautiful nephew Jude with his mommy Holly