A Poem for a Thursday #268

I enjoy E. E. Cummings’ poetry because it makes very little sense and yet all the sense in the world. His poetry was described as avant-garde and experimental. He used language in ways he wanted even if it went against all linguistic rules. He is described as “an unabashed lyricist, a modern cavalier love poet.” I have to read his poems several times but they are worth the effort.

somewhere i have never travelled. gladly beyond
any experience, your eyes have their silence:
in you 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 skillfully, mysteriously) her first rose

or if your wish to be close to me, i and 
my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefullly 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)
nonbody, not even the rain, has such small hands

(somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond)
E. E. Cummings