i just read this in a post in some other random blog, and i thought "my god, what a beautiful poem, i must share". if you think that liking poetry makes me flaky, fuck you, read it anyway. i've left it pretty much the way i found it on the other blog; you'll notice that 'spring' is capitalized here, and that's unusual for e.e. cummings. i left it 'cause that's how i found it. i took a poetry class in college, when i was all into english and stuff, and i hoped i could magically write like this, but of course, i can't. according to my classmates in our weekly critiques, all of my poems were about sex. i stopped writing poetry.
if this poem doesn't move you, you have no soul.


somewhere i have never travelled
by e.e. cummings


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