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
touched you
and your warm and crisp
littleness
—see? do not resemble my fingers
that move
into the hair-thin tints of yellow dawn
into the women-coloured twilight
the other day
i was passing a certain
gate
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
into freshness
as if god’s flowers were
pulling upon bells of
gold
*
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.