all which isn't singing is mere talking poem by e.e. cummings

e.e. cummings – all which isn’t singing is mere talking

all which isn’t singing is mere talking
and all talking’s talking to oneself
(whether that oneself be sought or seeking
master or disciple sheep or wolf)

gush to it as diety or devil
-toss in sobs and reasons threats and smiles
name it cruel fair or blessed evil-
it is you (ne i)nobody else

drive dumb mankind dizzy with haranguing
-you are deafened every mother’s son-
all is merely talk which isn’t singing
and all talking’s to oneself alone

but the very song of(as mountains
feel and lovers)singing is silence
***

a man who had fallen among thieves poem by e.e. cummings

e.e. cummings – a man who had fallen among thieves

a man who had fallen among thieves
lay by the roadside on his back
dressed in fifteenthrate ideas
wearing a round jeer for a hat

fate per a somewhat more than less
emancipated evening
had in return for consciousness
endowed him with a changeless grin

whereon a dozen staunch and Meal
citizens did graze at pause
then fired by hypercivic zeal
sought newer pastures or because

swaddled with a frozen brook
of pinkest vomit out of eyes
which noticed nobody he looked
as if he did not care to rise

one hand did nothing on the vest
its wideflung friend clenched weakly dirt
while the mute trouserfly confessed
a button solemnly inert.

Brushing from whom the stiffened puke
i put him all into my arms
and staggered banged with terror through
a million billion trillion stars

***

Wretch Poem by e.e. cummings

(will you teach a
wretch to live
straighter than a needle)

ask
her
ask
when
(ask and
ask
and ask
again and)ask a
brittle little
person fiddling
in
the
rain

(did you kiss
a girl with nipples
like pink thimbles)

ask
him
ask
who
(ask and
ask
and ask
ago and)ask a
simple
crazy
thing
singing
in the snow

– e. e. cummings
***

Tract Poem by William Carlos Williams

Tract
William Carlos Williams

——————————————————————————–

I will teach you my townspeople
how to perform a funeral–
for you have it over a troop
of artists–
unless one should scour the world–
you have the ground sense necessary.

See! the hearse leads.
I begin with a design for a hearse.
For Christ’s sake not black–
nor white either–and not polished!
Let it be weathered–like a farm wagon–
with gilt wheels (this could be
applied fresh at small expense)
or no wheels at all:
a rough dray to drag over the ground.

Knock the glass out!
My God–glass, my townspeople!
For what purpose? Is it for the dead
to look out or for us to see
how well he is housed or to see
the flowers or the lack of them–
or what?
To keep the rain and snow from him?
He will have a heavier rain soon:
pebbles and dirt and what not.
Let there be no glass–
and no upholstery, phew!
and no little brass rollers
and small easy wheels on the bottom–
my townspeople what are you thinking of?

A rough plain hearse then
with gilt wheels and no top at all.
On this the coffin lies
by its own weight.

No wreaths please–
especially no hot house flowers.
Some common memento is better,
something he prized and is known by:
his old clothes–a few books perhaps–
God knows what! You realize
how we are about these things
my townspeople–
something will be found–anything
even flowers if he had come to that.
So much for the hearse.

For heaven’s sake though see to the driver!
Take off the silk hat! In fact
that’s no place at all for him–
up there unceremoniously
dragging our friend out to his own dignity!
Bring him down–bring him down!
Low and inconspicuous! I’d not have him ride
on the wagon at all–damn him–
the undertaker’s understrapper!
Let him hold the reins
and walk at the side
and inconspicuously too!

Then briefly as to yourselves:
Walk behind–as they do in France,
seventh class, or if you ride
Hell take curtains! Go with some show
of inconvenience; sit openly–
to the weather as to grief.
Or do you think you can shut grief in?
What–from us? We who have perhaps
nothing to lose? Share with us
share with us–it will be money
in your pockets.

Go now
I think you are ready.

***

Blizzard Poem by William Carlos Williams

Blizzard

Snow falls:
years of anger following
hours that float idly down —
the blizzard
drifts its weight
deeper and deeper for three days
or sixty years, eh? Then
the sun! a clutter of
yellow and blue flakes —
Hairy looking trees stand out
in long alleys
over a wild solitude.
The man turns and there —
his solitary track stretched out
upon the world.

***