5 Poems to Read by E.E. Cummings

E.E. Cummings is the poet responsible for so many ingenious poems, such as [i carry your heart with me (i carry it in], [anyone lived in a pretty how town], and [in Just -]. But, you've probably read those before. When I thought about creating this post, I wanted to show off poems by E.E. Cummings that were new for me, too. So naturally, I started Googling. Below are the results of my intrepid search. In case you were curious, it wasn't too hard to find dozens and dozens of E.E. Cummings poems I haven't read before –– he was pretty prolific. Now, choosing only five? That was tough. Take a look below. What would you add? Feel free to comment on your favorite E.E. Cummings poems below this post.

1. all nearness pauses, while a star can grow

all nearness pauses, while a star can grow

all distance breathes a final dream of bells;

perfectly outlined against afterglow

are all amazing the and peaceful hills

(not where not here but neither's blue most both)

and history immeasurably is

wealthier by a single sweet day's death:

as not imagined secrecies comprise

goldenly huge whole the upfloating moon.

Time's a strange fellow;

                                       more he gives than takes

(and he takes all) nor any marvel finds

quite disappearance but some keener makes

losing, gaining

                        -- love! if a world ends

more than all worlds begin to (see?) begin

[via Poetry Magazine]

2. [as freedom is a breakfastfood]

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 thing 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

[via Poetry Foundation]

3. unlove's the heavenless hell and homeless home

unlove's the heavenless hell and homeless home

of knowledgeable shadows (quick to seize

each nothing which all soulless wraiths proclaim

substances; all heartless spectres, happiness)

lovers alone wear sunlight. The whole truth

not hid by matter; not by mind revealed

(more than all dying life, all living death)

and never which has been or will be told

sings only –– and all lovers are the song.

Here (only here) is freedom: always here

no then of winter equals now of spring;

but april's day transcends november's year

(eternity being so sans until

twice i have lived forever in a smile)

[via Poetry Magazine]

4. my father moved through dooms of love

my father moved through dooms of love

through sames of am through haves of give,

singing each morning out of each night

my father moved through depths of height

this motionless forgetful where

turned at his glance to shining here;

that if (so timid air is firm)

under his eyes would stir and squirm

newly as from unburied which

floats the first who, his april touch

drove sleeping selves to swarm their fates

woke dreamers to their ghostly roots

and should some why completely weep

my father's fingers brought her sleep:

vainly no smallest voice might cry 

for he could feel the mountains grow.

Lifting the valleys of the sea

my father moved through griefs of joy;

praising a forehead called the moon

singing desire into begin

joy was his song and joy so pure

a heart of star by him could steer

and pure so now and now so yes

the wrists of twilight would rejoice

keen as midsummer's keen beyond

conceiving mind of sun will stand, 

so strictly (over utmost him

so hugely) stood my father's dream

his flesh was flesh and his blood was blood:

no hungry man but wished him food;

no cripple wouldn't creep one mile

uphill to only see him smile.

Scorning the Pomp of must and shall 

my father moved through dooms of feel;

his anger was as right as rain

his pity was as green as grain

septembering arms of year extend

less humbly wealth to foe and friend

than he to foolish and to wise

offered immeasurable is

proudly and (by octobering flame

beckoned) as earth will downward climb,

so naked for immortal work

his shoulders marched against the dark

his sorrow was as true as bread:

no liar looked him in the head;

if every friend became his foe

he'd laugh and build a world with snow.

My father moved through theys of we,

singing each new leaf out of each tree

(and every child was sure that spring

danced when she heard my father sing)

then let men kill which cannot share,

let blood and flesh be mud and mire,

scheming imagine, passion willed,

freedom a drug that's bought and sold

giving to steal and cruel kind,

a heart to fear, to doubt a mind,

to differ a disease of same,

conform the pinnacle of am

through dull were all we taste as bright,

bitter all utterly things sweet,

maggoty minus and dumb death

all we inherit, all bequeath

and nothing quite so least as truth

––i say though hate were why men breathe––

because my Father lived his soul

love is the whole and more than all

[via Poets.org]

5. Spring is like a perhaps hand

Spring is like a perhaps hand

(which comes carefully

out of Nowhere)arranging

a window,into which people look(while

people stare

arranging and changing placing

carefully there a strange

thing and a known thing here)and

changing everything carefully

spring is like a perhaps

Hand in a window

(carefully to

and fro moving New and

Old things,while

people stare carefully

moving a perhaps

fraction of flower here placing

an inch of air there)and

without breaking anything.

[via Poets.org]

And there you have it. Thoughts, comments, reading suggestions, a killer scone recipe? Comment below. I'm 98% positive I'm dying to read it.