In lieu of e.e.cummings’ birthday—October 14, 1894—I have been reading his poems and wanted to create a found poem of some of his work. I hope you enjoy it.
Happy Birthday, e.e.cummings. You were one of my first poetic loves.
a found poem, a lost poem
into the strenuous briefness:
look, my fingers, which
and your warm and crisp
—see? do not resemble my fingers
into the hair-thin tints of yellow dawn
into the women-coloured twilight
the other day
i was passing a certain
i looked up and thought to myself: if day has to become night
this is a beautiful way
rain fell (as it will in spring)
ropes of silver gliding from sunny thunder
as if god’s flowers were
pulling upon bells of
all lines in my poem, “a found poem, a lost poem,” are pulled from E.E.Cummings, Selected Poems, edited by Richard S. Kennedy. New York: Liveright, 1994.