the other guineahen died of a broken heart and we came to New York. I used to sit at a table,drawing wings with a pencil that kept breaking and i kept remembering how your mind looked when it slept for several years,to wake up asking why. So then you turned into a photograph of somebody whoโs trying not to laugh at somebody whoโs trying not to cry
e. e. cummingsAt least the Pilgrim Fathers used to shoot Indians: the Pilgrim Children merely punch time clocks.
e. e. cummingsIf a poet is anybody, he is somebody to whom things made matter very little - somebody who is obsessed by Making.
e. e. cummingsI am someone who proudly and humbly affirms that love is the mystery-of-mysteries, and that nothing measurable matters 'a very good God damn'; that 'an artist, a man, a failure' is no mere whenfully accreting mechanism, but a givingly eternal complexity-neither some soulless and heartless ultrapredatory infra-animal nor any understandingly knowing and believing and thinking automaton, but a naturally and miraculously whole human being-a feelingly illimitable individual; whose only happiness is to transcend himself, whose every agony is to grow.
e. e. cummings