'A poet is somebody who feels, and who expresses his feelings through words.'
On individuality, voice, and the real feat of feeling in poetry, there is much to mull over here in this advice (posted below) from one of my favourite poets, EE Cummings.
I'm particularly struck by his surmise that when we use words like other people 'we are not poets.' In being a poet as he sees it (feels it), it is essential to be an individual too ('nobody-but-yourself') and to have a distinct voice of one's own, one that is imbued with feeling. Of course his poetry is a demonstration of this, an unique eureka of originality with an individual style so grand it could almost stand alone as a genre. In his manipulated syntax and grammar Cummings found a style that readily expressed modes and depths of feeling like none before, eliciting a 'feeling first' reaction in the reader. In fact, to wholly interpret an EE Cummings poem, it is necessary to feel it first - to probe at it with the antennae of the subconscious and sensory self, not that of the logical analytical mind. Logic impedes it, feeling frees it.
Language is a medium full of possibilities Cummings' poetry proves. Much like the human brain, we only use a small percentage of its capability, leaving its vast potential mostly untapped. To write poetry is to tap in to some of it, but here Cummings urges us to tap more. To go beyond. To not settle for the norm. His poetry pushed the boundaries of language to open up a whole new realm of discourse: one of feeling first. He succeeded (most dazzlingly) in finding an individual and authentic voice, unparallelled in the poetry canon.
If you're not familiar with his work, I urge you to have a look. You will be amazed, puzzled and dazed. And more liberated to push the boundaries of your own voice into the wonderful colourful domain of Individual.
*(You can read a selection of ee cummings poems: here)
"It
suddenly struck me that that tiny pea, pretty and blue, was the Earth. I
put up my thumb and shut one eye, and my thumb blotted out the planet
Earth. I didn't feel like a giant. I felt very, very small." ~ Neil Armstrong
All talk of the moon landing this week has brought up the idea of perspective for me.
It's a big world we live in, a big, vast, mysterious, marvellous universe. But then, when we lose sight of this, life becomes so small.
Life must be composed of big matter and small. The mystery and the mundane. But - from what I can see - most people are only concerned with the small. Well, lots of people. The mechanical necessities of existing: food, money, jobs, work, routine, societal status are their ruling concerns. Looking down all the time, they miss all the greatness and illumination of what it's really about.
Seems no one blinks an eye at a star anymore. No one stops to notice the moon. Or give impetus to dreams. Life spinning by us. Life composed of material matter, no mention of the stardust from whence we came.
Such an existence is not a life, it's just existing. Too much focus on the small things in life leads to mediocrity. Until everything loses its meaning. How empty everything would be then. How all the 'big' talk about life would become irrelevant, relegated to the background, to a bracketed by the way trivial footnote.
But, 'life I think is no parenthesis' - ee cummings. All these other things are.
It's hard for an idealist to survive in such a harsh realist world at times. Everywhere I look at the moment, miniscule mediocrity, making small of what's really big. Things all skewed out of balance. Someone once said that mediocrity was death to a poet. Of course it is. Because poetry is the complete opposite of mediocrity and meaningless. Not to rant, but sometimes it just sucks when everywhere you turn, you're faced with a big blank wasteland when there's a myriad of starry skies above.
And then reading about Neil Armstrong this week - how it seemed his one
great achievement was subsequently eclipsed by the lack of space exploration in
the preceding years of the moon landing - has added to my sense of disillusion on the big/small front. How the amazing feat of stepping on the moon was
soon forgotton and faded into the background of materialism and war and a world preoccupied with
other more pressing practical agendas. And how hard that must have been for him. A veritable Icarus of the modern age.
So I guess I'm just wondering how do we surpass it? This alienating insignificance that seems the modern creed. We artists, who feel everything so keenly, including the absence of feeling?
From an early age Armstrong was a pilot first and foremost. He learned to fly a plane before he could drive a car and is quoted as saying, 'pilots take no special joy in walking. Pilots like flying.' And fly they will I suppose, against all the odds. A good maxim which could be applied to every idealist and dreamer.
And now I'm thinking of a quote by ee cummings. An illustration of this sense of idealism and enthusiasm and curiosity for what life's really about, an inclination to stars. As he says stage right: there's a hell of a good universe next door, let's go!
Let's. Of course I know this. Armstrong knew this, quite literally. Lots of people know this. Lots don't seem to. Or act like they don't. If only they would. If only. Maybe then we'd see life in perspective - appreciate what it is really, first and foremost and finally, ultimately: a brazen and brilliant gift.
"it's april(yes,april;my darling)it's spring!" ~ ee cummings
April hath put a spirit of youth in everything. ~ William Shakespeare
April prepares her green traffic light and the whole world thinks Go. ~ Christopher Morley
Whatever TS Eliot said, April is not the cruellest month - au contraire! Everyone loves April. It swishes in, all yellowed in sunshine and ribbons of Easter gifts.
Did you know that April's birth stone is the diamond, the worthiest of all the jewels? Or that it has a full moon called a pink moon? (I hear Nick Drake chords... ) And legend has it that its name could have come from the Roman goddess of love, Aphrodite. Or also the Latin word 'aperire', which means 'to open,' a reference to all the budding and blooming of the time.
And because it's my birth month, I especially favour it. (And lots of other birthdays too - I know around 20 friends and family whose birthday occurs in April, making it a real 'birthday' month in every sense of the word! - May explain the newborn picture I have...)
But it seems I'm not that biased; hell, even old Willy himself praised it. (maybe it was because he was an April baby too; the 23rd). EE Cummings was a big fan too - 'the sky a silver/dissonance by the correct/fingers of April.' In the poem posted below, he really captures the playful, flighty, free, feel-good spirit of the month, 'and breathing is wishing and wishing is having...and wishing is having and having is giving...and having is giving and giving is living...'
Shakespeare is right too. It does put a spirit of youth in everything. A spring in your step. The earth coming back to life and beaming in blooms. A real new beginning (even if it's not your birthday, it is the astrological New Year...)
And the universe with its green light of Go beckoning everywhere. How can you resist its charm?
Happy April!
~ Siobhán.
when faces called flowers float out of the ground - ee cummings
when faces called flowers float out of the ground and breathing is wishing and wishing is having- but keeping is downward and doubting and never -it's april(yes,april;my darling)it's spring! yes the pretty birds frolic as spry as can fly yes the little fish gambol as glad as can be (yes the mountains are dancing together)
when every leaf opens without any sound and wishing is having and having is giving- but keeping is doting and nothing and nonsense -alive;we're alive,dear:it's(kiss me now)spring! now the pretty birds hover so she and so he now the little fish quiver so you and so i now the mountains are dancing, the mountains)
when more than was lost has been found has been found and having is giving and giving is living- but keeping is darkness and winter and cringing -it's spring(all our night becomes day)o,it's spring! all the pretty birds dive to the heart of the sky all the little fish climb through the mind of the sea all the mountains are dancing;are dancing)
Here we are, almost in 'official' Spring. Blue skies, green days, birds singing. I love Spring! My favourite season. I love its get-up-and-go energy. I love seeing the sun again after so long. I love the 'spring' in everyone's step. I love the blue skies full of potential. I love the feeling of things coming back to life again: trees, flowers, birds, people, dreams. Hibernation over. All the budding and blooming of possibilities, as Spring 'likea perhaps hand' spreads its seeds of curiousity, what ifs and miraculous maybes, across the land, to take root in and reawaken sleepy spirits.
And maybe someone who loved Spring as much as I do: EE Cummings. Once again, I dedicate this post (toast) to him. Maybe to every creative, Spring represents a time of inspiration after a fallow season. It certainly inspires me! And to explain that inspiration, I'm handing over to EE, because it's difficult to word-ify.
No one can describe Spring like this poet. Forget Wordsworth and his dull verses about daffodils! This is a time when our 'winging selves sing' and a time when 'everywhere space tastes of the amazement which is hope.' It is a time when our spirits soar, because 'all that was doubtful's certain, timid's bold; old's youthful and reluctant's eager now.' Youth and certainty and boldness, yes! And how do you explain that skip in the step? Why it's when 'life's star prances the blinding blue' of course! Nothing, as he notes, is this 'keen' as Spring is.
EE Cummings is the only poet in my opinion who can capture the zest and essence of the season in words. His poems on Spring are such a joy to read. I dare you to read 'sweet spring is your' and try not to singsong along! Indeed, love is in the air when Spring is, 'for springtime is lovetime.' The birds and the bees and all that yes, but who would have thought it's because everyone breathes 'quite so many kinds of yes.' That pulsing of possibility, that pounding of passion, that high of hope. A time when we forget 'if' and remember 'yes.' Yes is what it's all about.
I love what this poet can do with words, how he transforms them into energy, makes them grand gramophones of emotion - that intangible, tangled mess of endorphins and adrenaline and thoughts and aches - into actual typeface. Incredible.
Included below are a few Spring-themed poems of his (there are many more!) that I particularly love. As I said before of EE Cummings' poems, I love the energy in them, the greening lyrics, the flowering sentiment, the 'zing' as they penetrate the heart via the mind and lodge themselves there, little green volts, sounding a chorus of heartsong. Read and enjoy and feel the budding and blooming of your mood as you do.
Happy Spring!
~ Siobhán.
Spring is like a perhaps hand
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 fro 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
now winging selves sing sweetly now
winging selves sing sweetly,while ghosts(there
and here)of snow cringe;dazed an earth shakes sleep
out of her brightening mind:now everywhere
space tastes of the amazement which is hope
gone are those hugest hours of dark and cold
when blood and flesh to inexistence bow
(all that was doubtful's certain,timid's bold;
old's youthful and reluctant's eager now)
anywhere upward somethings yearn and stir
piercing a tangled wrack of wishless known;
nothing is like this keen(who breathes us)air
immortal with the fragrance of begin
winter is over--now(for me and you,
darling!)life's star prances the blinding blue
in time of daffodils in time of daffodils (who know
the goal of living is to grow)
forgetting why,remember how
in time of lilacs who proclaim
the aim of waking is to dream,
remember so(forgetting seem)
in time of roses (who amaze
our now and here with paradise)
forgetting if,remember yes
in time of all sweet things beyond
whatever mind may comprehend,
remember seek (forgetting find)
and in a mystery to be
(when time from time shall set us free)
forgetting me,remember me
