ee cummings (ii)

ee cummings:
a
t (tribute
d) serious moon
light, raindrop
s un
der a starflight
and legs that are not legs
it, to the max, if
was only the sound of a sax
sad into the night
said,
I should be luckier if I was born
into a war, than this
more (roxy music-ish)

and how
these fingers make of all things eager flowers
my toes, all the while, (made) wither and die
but
that is to say: I can only grasp
pieces at a time, of poetry
and your sayings go
far beneath what I imagine out of what you said
I didn't hear

words; like mashed potato stew, for daily misuse, like
greased pans - thou shall not wash
out, into the white of thy kitchen tapestry
i believe in the correctness of being through
writing and / of
cooking stuff
in that
you will spontaneously bring
into thy
being to have been let's not forget
here
as the sentences grasp themselves around the bend
bow
ie (in connection with all above)
that we shall not longer look at streets and think
them empty, re
flex and fall upon the kerb,
and men
must always fall.we
fail,
whenever we are piecing the world together
through lines in the mould of paper, that
we are columns that do not meet in hedging
s like the dry dry beauty

to place in capitol
letters to define what you admire and hold, holy, that
you look upon yourself as a tiny i by comparison
literally, therenext

as i ignore corrections, black out
the guide to the galaxical empire that is as poetic as ignorant
mankind sees
it, what's what, when it's it
wishful thinking (is all)
and we are wishing upon stars, my lovely, when you turn your nose
to the moon and you bark at it, because you cannot know you can but howl
forward the receiving end
of all incompatible, like

ringing in the new spring with a silent whistle,
we come running,
we know no better that to run from the source to another
Mister Death (aka: uwe kröger - der tod is wieder da!!)
who is clad in his white trench
and allies himself with foreign fiends
and should sing to us, yet
refrains
in so declines
himself excuses
himself, and us

how meticulously-allabsorbingly-sweet mother say to child
that world is simpel, no articles, that we need no names
and we are loved as new seasons, we are men who glare, we
are the non.specific,
en
genderlessly easily specified species who seldomly sneer
often, and we shall have it all (in) one day; till then, we
confine ourselves to our little planetariums herbarium
where we shall have pretty flowers and whistleblows and
mysterious music
memorandum, onto which we are chained as fucking cattle.sleep
less tight, into each other sleepless night

**
explanations and stuff.
soundtrack: dennis wilson - "pacific ocean blue", and in particular; "time", "thoughts of you" & "piano variations (thereupon)", because it fits so bloody well, and sounds so swell. ti amo, o caro eroe mio.

Now, as distinct from a great many (other) scholars, academics, self-proclaimd experts, etc, I do not share, or believe in, the much-prompted order to "kill your darlings, once in a while". (In fact, the next person who'll tell me to do so, will be in for the kill instead; that's how sick of it I am, at the moment.) I much rather find myself behind the claim to preserve my darlings, and use them at all times, at most occasions, as much as I possibly can; be they people, principles, or neat word constellations. Amongst the darlings I hold the most intensely dear, are - for instance, as mentioned below - circular backchanneling word order, and cyclic structure, as well as alliteration, end rhymes, ballad rhymes, synonyms, superfluous superlatives, and - I could go on for quite a while. In general, I have my favourite elements and techniques and lyrical features, and I do not intend to change them or let them go anytime soon. Moreover, and more to the point, I also have an intense fondness for pastiches, hommages, and intertextual, interreferential poetic texts or elaborate poetry, which includes a number of nods to people I admire, or who just so happen to have written texts I adore. Not surprisingly, amongst such folks can be found EE Cummings, and amongst such texts are his beautiful odes to spring, love, the letter "&" (...), and so on and so forth. Lots to say, here, still trying to restrain myself. In any case, due to my admiration and love for Mr Cummings, I shall endeavour to continue - that is, shortly, my attempt - to honour him and his writings through my own poetry, with a multi-attributed "darling"-label; if you like. Favourite poet, favourite poesy, alongside Whitman, Pound and the like, and a brilliant source of inspiration for a striving young wannabe-like-them. So, I really should be listening to Bowie's "Heroes", now, not just Wilson's melancholy blues. That being said, I have been listening to the former a bit, too; as will be apparent in the following poem, and there's even a teeny-weeny reference to Bryan Ferry somewhere! In addition, there's the occasional crime fiction novel read in-between, such as: "The Big Sleep", by Raymond Chandler, which is my current breakfast-garniture, and the gorgeous saxophone music from the not-so-gorgeous, but not entirely fail-filled film "Elizabethtown", which I watched late Sunday evening. Multiple sources, in other words, but mainly: Cummings. Who is complex enough to make do, all by himself, in the long run. And yeah: in case of worry, the font(s) look(s) that way purely by choice and desire, not by some html-induced acccident. Should have been Lucinda Console, as on Notepad, but - there was none. Also: for some extra fancy effect stuff and even more references, mark the whole text with your cursor and see what (amazing effectful ... stuff) might happen.