what i liked about e.e. cummings
was that he cut away from
the holiness of the
word
and with charm
and gamble
gave us lines
that sliced through the
dung.
how it was needed!
how we were withering
away
in the old
tired
manner.
of course, then came all
the e.e. cummings
copyists.
they copied him then
as the others had
copied Keats, Shelly,
Swinburne, Byron, et
al.
but there was only
one
e.e. cummings.
of course.
one sun.
one moon.
Yes, indeed, one sun, one moon and one Charles Bukowsky. Don't think the world could handle two. But, it certainly would be interesting.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
He must have hated educated reverence for the written word, and reading about his life confirms that in my mind. Perhaps he played the rough and ready eh? He boasts ' he knew every hitch on the street corners and messed around with most '.