Jan 27
WRITTEN ON THE PULSE
Time was
when wheat was
a living gold
that moved with the wind
moving me
to tears
unable to hold
the ecstasy of
its beauty
or the green of trees
alive with sunlight
made me cry that I
had no words to touch it
and all I could do
was to love it so
with all
my soul
before words came
and attached themselves
to these ordinary
miracles
the world teaching me
to say itself
to understand
the ravishing of the senses
the language of feeling
written on the pulse
*
My five year old memories held in the soul until words came and helped me to express them.
A poet is somebody who feels, and who expresses his feelings through words.
This may sound easy. It isn’t.
A lot of people think or believe or know they feel — but that’s thinking or believing or knowing; not feeling. And poetry is feeling — not knowing or believing or thinking.
Almost anybody can learn to think or believe or know, but not a single human being can be taught to feel. Why? Because whenever you think or you believe or you know, you’re a lot of other people: but the moment you feel, you’re nobody-but-yourself.
To be nobody-but-yourself — in a world which is doing its best, night and day, to make you everybody else — means to fight the hardest battle which any human being can fight; and never stop fighting.
As for expressing nobody-but-yourself in words, that means working just a little harder than anybody who isn’t a poet can possibly imagine. Why? Because nothing is quite as easy as using words like somebody else. We all of us do exactly this nearly all of the time — and whenever we do it, we’re not poets.
If, at the end of your first ten or fifteen years of fighting and working and feeling, you find you’ve written one line of one poem, you’ll be very lucky indeed.
And so my advice to all young people who wish to become poets is: do something easy, like learning how to blow up the world — unless you’re not only willing, but glad, to feel and work and fight till you die.
Does that sound dismal? It isn’t.
It’s the most wonderful life on earth.
Or so I feel.
E.E. Cummings - enormous SMALLNESS
Time was
when wheat was
a living gold
that moved with the wind
moving me
to tears
unable to hold
the ecstasy of
its beauty
or the green of trees
alive with sunlight
made me cry that I
had no words to touch it
and all I could do
was to love it so
with all
my soul
before words came
and attached themselves
to these ordinary
miracles
the world teaching me
to say itself
to understand
the ravishing of the senses
the language of feeling
written on the pulse
*
My five year old memories held in the soul until words came and helped me to express them.
A poet is somebody who feels, and who expresses his feelings through words.
This may sound easy. It isn’t.
A lot of people think or believe or know they feel — but that’s thinking or believing or knowing; not feeling. And poetry is feeling — not knowing or believing or thinking.
Almost anybody can learn to think or believe or know, but not a single human being can be taught to feel. Why? Because whenever you think or you believe or you know, you’re a lot of other people: but the moment you feel, you’re nobody-but-yourself.
To be nobody-but-yourself — in a world which is doing its best, night and day, to make you everybody else — means to fight the hardest battle which any human being can fight; and never stop fighting.
As for expressing nobody-but-yourself in words, that means working just a little harder than anybody who isn’t a poet can possibly imagine. Why? Because nothing is quite as easy as using words like somebody else. We all of us do exactly this nearly all of the time — and whenever we do it, we’re not poets.
If, at the end of your first ten or fifteen years of fighting and working and feeling, you find you’ve written one line of one poem, you’ll be very lucky indeed.
And so my advice to all young people who wish to become poets is: do something easy, like learning how to blow up the world — unless you’re not only willing, but glad, to feel and work and fight till you die.
Does that sound dismal? It isn’t.
It’s the most wonderful life on earth.
Or so I feel.
E.E. Cummings - enormous SMALLNESS
