Currently Reading: Daughters of the Witching Hill by Mary Sharratt
Happy Friday! In honor of e.e. cummings' birthday today, I am posting
one of my favorite poems of his. The beautiful thing about cummings'
poetry is that it can mean different things to different people. His poetry
is full of images and metaphors and words that flow like water over rocks.
This is what I love about him.
P.S. Another wonderful celebration today that gives me shivers of
happiness: 180 years ago today, my 5th great-grandparents, Rebecca
Whittome and Robert Driver were married at St. Margaret's Church
in Hilgay, Norfolk, England. Happy Anniversary to my ancestors!
In fact, upon rereading this poem, I realize that it is quite appropriate
for this occasion as well.
|St. Margaret's Church, Hilgay, Norfolk, England|
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)