Art hoard
The Despairing Man Draws a Serpent
I went up the hill
At moonrise.
She swore that she would come
By the south way.
A dusky hawk
Caught up the path
In his talons.
Politics
‘In our time the destiny of man presents its meanings in political terms.’ —Thomas Mann
How can I, that girl standing there,
My attention fix
On Roman or on Russian
Or on Spanish politics,
Yet here’s a travelled man that knows
What he talks about,
And there’s a politician
That has both read and thought,
And maybe what they say is true
Of war and war’s alarms,
But O that I were young again
And held her in my arms.
Amores I
consider O
woman this
my body.
for it has
lain
with empty arms
upon the giddy hills
to dream of you,
approve these
firm unsated
eyes
which have beheld
night’s speechless carnival
the painting
of the dark
with meteors
streaming from playful
immortal hands
the bursting
of the wafted stars
(in time to come you shall
remember of this night amazing
esctasies slowly,
in the glutted
heart fleet
flowerterrible
memories
shall
rise,slowly
return upon the
red elected lips
scaleless visions)
E. E. Cummings, Tulips and Chimneys
Despair
At moonrise a weariness comes over me,
And I dream of trees holding up a sky,
Beneath which I walk, seeking a lost road
To the house of a friend.
And in this twilight of my brain
I pray for a gate,
Or a bridge,
Or a tunnel,
By which I may come to an end.
But there are no walls for gates,
Or rivers for bridges,
Or mountains for tunnels.
There is nothing to stop me,
There is nothing to hold me.
Yet I must go on—
For how can one rest
Where there is neither wall nor hill nor sea,
And where in the full darkness
Little lights show
Only to vanish as one approaches them?
Amores III
as is the sea marvelous
from god’s
hands which sent her forth
to sleep upon the world
and the earth withers
the moon crumbles
one by one
stars flutter into dust
but the sea
does not change
and she goes forth out of hands and
she returns into hands
and is with sleep....
love,
the breaking
of your
soul
upon
my lips
E. E. Cummings, Tulips and Chimneys
Dream
—after three pints of Vanzeelli’s wine
and a very great deal of conversation
I rose and walked sunward.
Bolts flew to my eyes and burst.
Time passed but I stopped him.
He drew a century from his wallet
And gave it to me.
But I could not spend it—
I gave it away.
Thoughts from behind me ran ahead.
They drove on into the heavens
With the fury of rockets.
They possessed the world for one moment
Before the earth tugged me back to her bosom.
I writhed and writhed until I lay awake,
Listening to the city grinding up the dead.
Amores VIII
your little voice
Over the wires came leaping
and i felt suddenly
dizzy
With the jostling and shouting of merry flowers
wee skipping high-heeled flames
courtesied before my eyes
or twinkling over to my side
Looked up
with impertinently exquisite faces
floating hands were laid upon me
I was whirled and tossed into delicious dancing
up
Up
with the pale important
stars and the Humorous
moon
dear girl
How i was crazy how i cried when i heard
over time
and tide and death
leaping
Sweetly
your voice
E. E. Cummings, Tulips and Chimneys
Three VIII
will out of the kindness of their hearts a few philosophers tell me
what am i doing on top of this hill at Calchidas,in the sunlight?
down ever so far on the beach below me a little girl in white spins,tumbles:rolling in sand.
across this water,crowding tints:browns and whites shoving, the doting millions of windows of thousands of houses—Lisboa. Like the crackle of typewriter,in the afternoon sky.
goats and sheep are driven by somebody along a curve of road which eats into a pink cliff back and up leaning out of yellowgreen water.
they are building a house down there by the sea,in the afternoon.
rapidly a reddish ant travels my fifth finger.
a bird chirps in a tree,somewhere nowhere
and a little girl in white is tumbling
in sand
Clouds over
me are like bridegrooms
Naked and luminous
(here the absurd I;life,to peer and wear clothes. i am altogether foolish,i suddenly make a fist out of ten fingers
voices rise from down ever so far—
hush.
Sunlight,
there are old men behind me I tell you;several,incredible,sleepy
E. E. Cummings, is 5
