e. e. cummings
e. e. cummings
Edward Estlin Cummings, known as E. E. Cummings, with the abbreviated form of his name often written by others in lowercase letters as e e cummings, was an American poet, painter, essayist, author, and playwright. His body of work encompasses approximately 2,900 poems, two autobiographical novels, four plays and several essays, as well as numerous drawings and paintings. He is remembered as an eminent voice of 20th century English literature...
NationalityAmerican
ProfessionPoet
Date of Birth14 October 1894
CityCambridge, MA
CountryUnited States of America
Do not hate or fear the artist in yourselves... Honor and love him...do not try to possess him. Trust him as nobly as you trust tomorrow. Only the artist in yourself is more truthful than the night.
So far as I am concerned, poetry and every other art was, is, and forever will be strictly and distinctly a question of individuality.
If at the end of your first ten or fifteen years of fighting and working and feeling, you find you've written one line of one poem, you'll be very lucky indeed.
May my mind stroll about hungry and fearless and thirsty and supple and even if its sunday may i be wrong for whenever men are right they are not young
In just - Spring when the world is mud- luscious the little lame balloonman whistles far and wee
What concerns me fundamentaly is a meteoric burlesk melodrama, born of the immemorial adage love will find a way.
All ignorance toboggans into know and trudges up to ignorance again.
The sensual mysticism of entire vertical being.
Nothing recedes like progress.
all nothing's only our hugest home; the most who die, the more we live
someones married their everyones laughed their cryings and did their dance (sleep wake hope and then) they said their nevers they slept their dream
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.
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
worms are the words but joy's the voice