An e.e. cummings Thanksgiving for Pantheists, Pagans, Generic Mystics, Animists, Deists, Theists, Agnostics, Atheists, and Doubting Methodists

A friend's request to see my photos of the new-to-me golden-crowned kinglet made me think of e.e. cummings’ Poem 53 and hear it as a thanks-giving as well as its more obvious prayer of beseeching and urging oneself. The world is rich and not entirely logical; let me perceive and love it for those reasons, contradictory as they may seem. Poem 53 might be too sentimental for some, but how does one dispute its argument? 

(In my cummings book, Line 7 begins “and even,” not “for even”—I suspect Garrison Keillor’s secretary was typing on Sunday):    

http://writersalmanac.publicradio.org/index.php?date=2011/12/31

Also consider Poem 53 as a reply to Janet Loxley Lewis’ “Austerity” in my last post. Would she and e.e. cummings have hated each other? Are they actually disagreeing in these two poems?  How bitterly? Which side of the argument are you partial to—cummings’ “little birds” or Loxley Lewis’ “monotony” of stars?

And now that I've caused myself to think in pairs, then, how can I re-post the golden-crowned kinglet without his cousin (I assume), the ruby-crowned kinglet? Do you have a favorite? Do you love one child more than the other? 

You see, this is how football begins: you feel a kinship with a team's location or uniform and soon enough you're a tribalist, betting on Roman gladiators who rumble in the dirt, making themselves metaphors for war. And yet, I'm a fan, sort of. 

It must be Sunday: I'm not making sense; surely I'm wrong. And therefore blessed.

Happy eating-drinking-observing-thinking! 

http://writersalmanac.publicradio.org/index.php?date=2011/12/31

There wasn’t a lot of commentary when I posted Poem 53 in May of 2010. Maybe it will be different this time.

http://banjo52.blogspot.com/search?q=cummings+poem+53

e.e. cummings, spring

Top: spring singer


Left: pantheist's lectern


I’m pretty sure this is an unwritten rule: people who claim to be serious about literature are supposed to scoff at e.e. cummings as one more sentimentalist, along the lines of Longfellow or Dr. Seuss.

I’m pretty sure the following is true: many people who care about good writing have secretly liked e.e. cummings, the lovable rebel and the romantic in all senses of the word. Some might even confess they’ve found his work a turning point in their fondness for poetry.

I know this is true: several friends or colleagues and I have whispered to each other, “Yes, I like cummings. Shhhh. Don’t tell. It would kill any credibility I might have.” We might have gone on to say, “Yes, he’s sappy and puerile, but he opened up new ways to think, feel, and speak when I very much needed that.”

Here are two from cummings’ 100 selected poems (thanks to poemhunter.com). (I include the second poem, #54, mainly for its concluding aphorism—the rest is a bit much even for sappy me). (Did you ever notice that “manly” is natural typo for “mainly”? Can manly men care for cummings? “You with your fresh thoughts care for, can you?”)


#53

may my heart always be open to little
birds who are the secrets of living
whatever they sing is better than to know
and if men should not hear them men are old

may my mind stroll about hungry
and fearless and thirsty and supple
and even if it's sunday may i be wrong
for whenever men are right they are not young

and may myself do nothing usefully
and love yourself so more than truly
there's never been quite such a fool who could fail
pulling all the sky over him with one smile




#54

you shall above all things be glad and young
For if you're young,whatever life you wear

it will become you;and if you are glad
whatever's living will yourself become.
Girlboys may nothing more than boygirls need:
i can entirely her only love

whose any mystery makes every man's
flesh put space on;and his mind take off time

that you should ever think,may god forbid
and (in his mercy) your true lover spare:
for that way knowledge lies,the foetal grave
called progress,and negation's dead undoom.

I'd rather learn from one bird how to sing
than teach ten thousand stars how not to dance

Ukuleles, Sweetness, Stephen Dunn, Frances Darwin Cornford, e.e. cummings.

Here is one by Stephen Dunn that might fit the theme or mood of the videos below.

Sweetness by Stephen Dunn : Poetry Magazine [poem/magazine] : Find Poems and Poets. Discover Poetry.

I had no idea what was possible on the uke. Don't tell Gothpunkuncle, but I thought of it as a toy guitar. I confess.

If you look at the James Hill video, there is, as usual, a column of promising ukulele clips down the right side of the page at YouTube.

The clip is about 5 minutes. If you're short on time, you might scoot forward to about the 1:30 mark for the remarkable stuff.

YouTube - James Hill - One Note Samba

But for sheer delight, for complete bunny-hood, I still have to crown the happy little strummer from last March 30:

YouTube - I'm Yours(ukulele)

After that, Stephen Dunn, or even a lighter, feel-good poem might seem too heavy, but I'll offer one in case you missed "The Guitarist Tunes Up" from last Valentine's Day. It's written by the granddaughter of Charles Darwin, so I presume there's a survival motif if we look really hard:

The Guitarist Tunes Up by Frances Darwin Cornford

Upon hearing ukuleles and seeing Ukulele Boy's animation and face in the video, I also think of these lines from e.e. cummings' poems 53 and 54, posted here last May 13:

may my heart always be open to little
birds who are the secrets of living
whatever they sing is better than to know
and if men should not hear them men are old
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
there's never been quite such a fool who could fail
pulling all the sky over him with one smile



you shall above all things be glad and young
For if you're young,whatever life you wear

it will become you;and if you are glad
whatever's living will yourself become.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

I'd rather learn from one bird how to sing
than teach ten thousand stars how not to dance


**