This is the poem given to me by Joe Decker, my literature teacher, some months ago, saying that this is the kind of poem I would write. I don't know how he could say that but I took it and put it on my desk. Just now, I opened and read it again.
Just like other poems of E.E. Cummings, this one also doesn't have a title.
Just like other poems of E.E. Cummings, this one also doesn't have a title.
In a middle of a room
stands a suicide
sniffing a Paper rose
smiling to a self
"somewhere it is Spring and sometimes
people are in real:imagine
somewhere real flowers,but
I can't imagine real flowers for if I
could,they would somehow
not Be real"
(so he smiles
smiling)"but I will not
everywhere be real to
you in a moment"
The is blond
with small hands
"& everything is easier
than I had guessed everything would
be;even remembering the way who
looked at whom first,anyhow dancing
(a moon swims out of a cloud
a clock strikes midnight
a finger pulls a trigger
a bird flies into a mirror)
- ee cummings -
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