April is National Poetry Month, so I thought I’d share a poem today. I’ve never been a big poetry person, but as an English major there was no escaping it, and I managed to find a few poets that I truly love.
My first instinct was to post some T.S. Eliot. I was thinking The Wasteland as its infamous opening line (“April is the cruelest month…”) seemed so apt, especially considering the funks I’ve been finding myself in over the past few weeks. As a pessimist, I have always been an Eliot fan.
But I didn’t think it was quite fair to be so depressing. Especially because the sun is out today and it’s Monday and why not start things off with a clean slate?
So then I thought of e.e. cummings. I’ve been an e.e. cummings fan since high school. I like how even though his poems often seem like gobbledygook, something about their rhythm and their sounds and how they feel as they trip off your tongue often conveys some sort of meaning, even if the words themselves don’t make sense. Enjoy!
Spring is like a perhaps hand – e.e. cummings
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 from 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.