Thursday, October 11, 2012

worms are the words but joy's the voice

For all my beautiful friends, you know who you are, with beautiful arms and hair and smiles and hearts.

[  A S   F R E E D O M   I S   A   B R E A K F A S T F O O D  ]
By E. E. Cummings

as freedom is a breakfastfood
or truth can live with right and wrong
or molehills are from mountains made
—long enough and just so long
will being pay the rent of seem
and genius please the talentgang
and water most encourage flame

as hatracks into peachtrees grow
or hopes dance best on bald men’s hair
and every finger is a toe
and any courage is a fear
—long enough and just so long
will the impure think all things pure
and hornets wail by children stung

or as the seeing are the blind
and robins never welcome spring
nor flatfolk prove their world is round
nor dingsters die at break of dong
and common’s rare and millstones float
—long enough and just so long
tomorrow will not be too late

worms are the words but joy’s the voice
down shall go which and up come who
breasts will be breasts thighs will be thighs
deeds cannot dream what dreams can do
—time is a tree(this life one leaf)
but love is the sky and i am for you
just so long and long enough

From Complete Poems 1904-1962, edited by George J. Firmage. 

              •       •       •

Sometimes you just have to wait. Mostly you just have to wait, and make good on all that waiting time. The right things and people show up, more or less just when they were supposed to—which is rarely when you thought they were going to. And that's not to say some people don't have it better than others, because they do, but to say that despite who's up or down, there is a lot of waiting to be done. The trick is just to be OK with that, and not lose track of what you're waiting for or why.

—long enough and just so long

Sometimes you just cannot do all of it. Mostly you can't do any of it, but just give over to the process of one thing at a time, and try to find a moment to watch the sky slip overhead, or the light on the water. Sometimes you cannot answer the phone or the email because you are already answering the phone and the email and a still small voice is leading through each word or thick white envelope: here and here and now. And despite what you imagined it would be like, it's much busier than that, and far less glamorous.

tomorrow will not be too late

And sometimes things come out so nice, like a line of well-behaved school children you suddenly realize are your own. Their faces are clean and their eyes shining. They have something to tell you. Dreams converge with the smell of someone cooking chicken soup and clanking of the radiators. It is far simpler than you imagined, you look good in red after all.

Worms are the words but joy's the voice

              •       •       • 

p o e t r y   w e d n e s d a y  }


Kate T. said...

I hadn't read this cummings poem before, and it's just wonderful! Thank you for that.

Julia said...

I really like your prose here, Amber. It's impressionistic and yet I think I can safely say there is a clear message and I agree with it. I'm done with forcing things, and it seems like the best moments are always the unforced ones that can only, like you say, converge of their own accord.

Manuela said...

This is beautiful all around. Thank you for this. I am actually very impressed with your writing here, Amber.

And the picture is print worthy and I would like to hang it on my mirror.