When I read e.e.cummings, I hear it in the voice of my father who would, on occasional impulse, recite one. For a while, he cut firewood for a living, in the backwoods of North Carolina. So it is ironic, that now, hearing cummings read his own poem, he sounds, to me, pretentious, the inflections all improper. But there is an old god in my deep mind who is a blur of e.e.cummings and my father. And I miss him.
That was a reading style of the time. Other major writers sounded equally pretentious. But partly that's bc all these folks were a minority existing in a vast world just as indifferent to intellectual and/or sentimental depth as now. Perhaps it was a way to somehow fortify their words. Remember that final scene from A PERFECT STORM when the fishing boat struggled to maintain itself against those immense waves & looked so small? General human fate. You're lucky to have had a father who randomly recited cummings. seriously
@@dawnabraham4415 Yes, I was very lucky. He also read to my siblings and me, bed time stories, "The Wind in the Willows," "The Lord of the Rings," and others. I would strongly encourage fathers to do this. It's not just about the story itself; it's about the bonding that it creates. Years later, as a teenager, he would take me backpacking, and upon finding ourselves in some particularly enchanting glade or grove, I might say, 'This looks like some place out of "The Lord of the Rings," And he would say, "yes, it does."
To me, it speaks to the naturalistic power of love- how the eyes of the speaker's love affect him so deeply, in the way a rose can't help but to open when it's spring time. Something beyond words, something beyond places travelled, a love only the speaker *knows* deep inside.
I think it works so well because of the abstraction. The awe could sound like obsession in a concretely romantic poem. Then there would also be the suspicion that the passion was just inflated lust. But here it's like an ode to love, or to a love that transcends the types of love.
somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond any experience,your eyes have their silence: in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me, or which i cannot touch because they are too near your slightest look easily will unclose me though i have closed myself as fingers, you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens (touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose or if your wish be to close me,i and my life will shut very beautifully,suddenly, as when the heart of this flower imagines the snow carefully everywhere descending; nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals the power of your intense fragility:whose texture compels me with the colour of its countries, rendering death and forever with each breathing (i do not know what it is about you that closes and opens;only something in me understands the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses) nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands
ok just some clarification, i see people writing about how this is written for his daughter, even at the birth of the daughter (which i think is unlikely). I'm not going to debunk this theory as i am no historian, but this was published in 1931 and his daughter was born in 1919, 12 years before. That is a long time to leave a poem unpublished, considering his first works were published in 1923. I get the impression this poem is written for a lover, possibly his second wife who he was with at the time this was published. Having said that i love the idea it is about his daughter, and is definitely a possible option because the theme of this poem is love and the power the subject has over the speaker, but we do not know the type of love, familial, romantic or lustful. It makes sense with the frailty and fragility. Its up to interpretation so I wouldn't say stick to one perception, as there are many. :)
Most of Cummings' work is very, very, sexual. Some of it is actually comedic. I own a book of his entire body of work, and it's amazing. It's weird to hear him read it though. He sounds like a pretentious hipster who would write shitty beat-poetry in an attempt to *sound* like Cummings. Like Brindlebriar, I always imagined his poems sounding more humble and unassuming.
Firstly there is no set method in reading a poem. Secondly, it's the artist's himself that reads the poem. Thus he wants it read in this certain way for a reason.
somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond any experience,your eyes have their silence: in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me, or which i cannot touch because they are too near your slightest look easily will unclose me though i have closed myself as fingers, you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens (touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose or if your wish be to close me,i and my life will shut very beautifully,suddenly, as when the heart of this flower imagines the snow carefully everywhere descending; nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals the power of your intense fragility:whose texture compels me with the colour of its countries, rendering death and forever with each breathing (i do not know what it is about you that closes and opens;only something in me understands the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses) nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands
somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond any experience, your eyes have their silence: in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me, or which i cannot touch because they are too near your slightest look easily will unclose me though i have closed myself as fingers, you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens (touching skillfully, mysteriously) her first rose or if your wish be to close me, i and my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly, as when the heart of this flower imagines the snow carefully everywhere descending; nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals the power of your intense fragility: whose texture compels me with the colour of its countries, rendering death and forever with each breathing (i do not know what it is about you that closes and opens; only something in me understands the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses) nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands 💜
The power and mystery of pure love. One of the most beautiful poems in existence.
When I read e.e.cummings, I hear it in the voice of my father who would, on occasional impulse, recite one. For a while, he cut firewood for a living, in the backwoods of North Carolina. So it is ironic, that now, hearing cummings read his own poem, he sounds, to me, pretentious, the inflections all improper. But there is an old god in my deep mind who is a blur of e.e.cummings and my father. And I miss him.
"But there is an old god in my deep mind who is a blur of e.e.cummings and my father. And I miss him." That's pure poetry.
♥️
That was a reading style of the time. Other major writers sounded equally pretentious. But partly that's bc all these folks were a minority existing in a vast world just as indifferent to intellectual and/or sentimental depth as now. Perhaps it was a way to somehow fortify their words.
Remember that final scene from A PERFECT STORM when the fishing boat struggled to maintain itself against those immense waves & looked so small? General human fate.
You're lucky to have had a father who randomly recited cummings. seriously
@@dawnabraham4415 Yes, I was very lucky. He also read to my siblings and me, bed time stories, "The Wind in the Willows," "The Lord of the Rings," and others. I would strongly encourage fathers to do this. It's not just about the story itself; it's about the bonding that it creates. Years later, as a teenager, he would take me backpacking, and upon finding ourselves in some particularly enchanting glade or grove, I might say, 'This looks like some place out of "The Lord of the Rings," And he would say, "yes, it does."
@brindlebriar I think I enjoyed your comment more than the actual poem!
To me, it speaks to the naturalistic power of love- how the eyes of the speaker's love affect him so deeply, in the way a rose can't help but to open when it's spring time. Something beyond words, something beyond places travelled, a love only the speaker *knows* deep inside.
This is my favorite poem. It can be about so many types of love.
One of the most beautiful things EVER written. It brings tears to my eyes almost every time I read it.
Every line he delivers sounds like an opening and closing unto itself.
Such an incredibly stunning poem; one of my all time favourites.
👍👍👍❤
My heart is now open...love E.E. Cummings!
I think it works so well because of the abstraction. The awe could sound like obsession in a concretely romantic poem. Then there would also be the suspicion that the passion was just inflated lust. But here it's like an ode to love, or to a love that transcends the types of love.
Wow...How did I live my life without knowing this?
i know this one almost by heart...was english major and read tons of his poems. Heartbreakingly beautiful.
Hannah and her sisters 💓
To me, it has a sense of mystery and darkness, he seems to be describing the power, glory, and wonder of that force within each and everyone of us
somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond
any experience,your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near
your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose
or if your wish be to close me,i and
my life will shut very beautifully,suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;
nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility:whose texture
compels me with the colour of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing
(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands
ok just some clarification, i see people writing about how this is written for his daughter, even at the birth of the daughter (which i think is unlikely). I'm not going to debunk this theory as i am no historian, but this was published in 1931 and his daughter was born in 1919, 12 years before. That is a long time to leave a poem unpublished, considering his first works were published in 1923.
I get the impression this poem is written for a lover, possibly his second wife who he was with at the time this was published. Having said that i love the idea it is about his daughter, and is definitely a possible option because the theme of this poem is love and the power the subject has over the speaker, but we do not know the type of love, familial, romantic or lustful. It makes sense with the frailty and fragility. Its up to interpretation so I wouldn't say stick to one perception, as there are many. :)
Wonderous lines and personal + universal
Beautiful.
gorgeous poem
My favorite e.e. Cummings poem
Wonderful ~
***The crackling record***
ahh I love this poem so much I've memorized it! :P
gosh his reading voice is much less 60s and American than I expected
more formal
Really great comment, puts it together well.
I just like 👍 him. No mystery
I do realized you posted your comment a year ago, however, it is so wonderful, powerful and poetic, I had to respond. A wonderful comment.
♥♥
Astute!!
In my mind and in my religion.
@XxCookieMonsterxX27 The whole of Cummings scholarship and criticism has been waiting for someone to make such a joke. Well done sir, well done.
Nate Ruess
Ewa Aulin knows all.
💗💗❤️🇩🇿
The Hour brought me here
Edward Estlin
date of this recording?
Y, y, yly
Here is a tribute video on the poem
czcams.com/video/cGntAgpY0Ys/video.html
Woody Allen bring me here. Thank you.
hola, Romy
Who is reading this ? Is it ee cummings?
yes it is
Most of Cummings' work is very, very, sexual. Some of it is actually comedic. I own a book of his entire body of work, and it's amazing. It's weird to hear him read it though. He sounds like a pretentious hipster who would write shitty beat-poetry in an attempt to *sound* like Cummings. Like Brindlebriar, I always imagined his poems sounding more humble and unassuming.
Beat poetry is awesome actually.
Well - this isn't "sexual", as the poem was written about his daughter.
e e cummings sounds rather English... I think
This is not meant to be sexual. From research I have done,this is to his young daughter.
Not the best reader of his poetry.
excellent poem but bad reading. poetry is not read like that
Firstly there is no set method in reading a poem. Secondly, it's the artist's himself that reads the poem. Thus he wants it read in this certain way for a reason.
It's his poem to read.
somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience,your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near
your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose
or if your wish be to close me,i and
my life will shut very beautifully,suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;
nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility:whose texture
compels me with the colour of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing
(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands
somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience, your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near
your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skillfully, mysteriously) her first rose
or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;
nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the colour of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing
(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands
💜