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Spring Slattern Of Seasons You Have Soggy Legs And A Muddy Petticoat Drowsy Is Your Hair Your Eyes Are Sticky With Dream And You Have A Sloppy Body From Being Brought To Bed Of Crocuses When You Sing In Your Whisky Voice The Grass Rises On The Head Of The Earth And All The Trees Are Put On Edge Spring Of The Excellent Jostle Of Thy Hips And The Superior

-E. E. Cummings

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Spring Slattern Of Seasons

E. E. Cummings

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Spring Slattern Of Seasons You Have Soggy Legs And A Muddy Petticoat Drowsy Is Your Hair Your Eyes Are Sticky With Dream And You Have A Sloppy Body From Being Brought To Bed Of Crocuses When You Sing In Your Whisky Voice The Grass Rises On The Head Of The Earth And All The Trees Are Put On Edge Spring Of The Excellent Jostle Of Thy Hips And The Superior

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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.

Humanity I Love You Because You Are Perpetually Putting The Secret Of Life In Your Pants And Forgetting It's There And Sitting Down On It And Because You Are Forever Making Poems In The Lap Of Death Humanity I Hate You

Spring Slattern Of Seasons You Have Soggy Legs And A Muddy Petticoat Drowsy Is Your Hair Your Eyes Are Sticky With Dream And You Have A Sloppy Body From Being Brought To Bed Of Crocuses When You Sing In Your Whisky Voice The Grass Rises On The Head Of The Earth And All The Trees Are Put On Edge Spring Of The Excellent Jostle Of Thy Hips And The Superior

In Just - Spring When The World Is Mud- Luscious The Little Lame Balloonman Whistles Far And Wee

Who Knows If The Moon's / A Balloon, Coming Out Of A Keen City / In The Sky - Filled With Pretty People?

Love Is A Deeper Season Than Reason; My Sweet One

Whatever's Merely Willful, And Not Miraculous (be Never It So Skilful) Must Wither Fail And Cease - But Better Than To Grow Beauty Knows No.

Your Homecoming Will Be My Homecoming

It May Not Always Be So; And I Say That If Your Lips, Which I Have Loved, Should Touch Another's, And Your Dear Strong Fingers Clutch His Heart, As Mine In Time Not Far Away; If On Another's Face Your Sweet Hair Lay In Such A Silence As I Know,or Such Great Writhing Words As, Uttering Overmuch, Stand Helplessly Before The Spirit At Bay; If This Should Be, I Say If This Should Be- You Of My Heart, Send Me A Little Word; That I May Go Unto Him, And Take His Hands, Saying, Accept All Happiness From Me. Then Shall I Turn My Face,and Hear One Bird Sing Terribly Afar In The Lost Lands.

I Thank You God For Most This Amazing Day:for The Leaping Greenly Spirits Of Trees And A Blue True Dream Of Sky; And For Everything Which Is Natural Which Is Infinite Which Is Yes (i Who Have Died Am Alive Again Today, And This Is The Sun's Birthday; This Is The Birth Day Of Life And Of Love And Wings: And Of The Gay Great Happening Illimitably Earth) How Should Tasting Touching Hearing Seeing Breathing Any--lifted From The No Of All Nothing--human Merely Being Doubt Unimaginable You? (now The Ears Of My Ears Awake And Now The Eyes Of My Eyes Are Opened)

Here Is The Deepest Secret Nobody Knows (here Is The Root Of The Root And The Bud Of The Bud And The Sky Of The Sky Of A Tree Called Life; Which Grows Higher Than The Soul Can Hope Or Mind Can Hide) And This Is The Wonder That's Keeping The Stars Apart I Carry Your Heart (i Carry It In My Heart)

If You Like My Poems Let Them Walk In The Evening, A Little Behind You

Your Head Is A Living Forest Full Of Songbirds.

Since The Thing Perhaps Is To Eat Flowers And Not To Be Afraid

Anyone Lived In A Pretty How Town (with Up So Floating Many Bells Down) Spring Summer Autumn Winter He Sang His Didn't He Danced His Did.

To Destroy Is Always The First Step In Any Creation.

Our Can'ts Were Born To Happen Our Mosts Have Died In More

O Sweet Spontaneous Earth

Your Slightest Look Easily Will Unclose Me, Though I Have Closed Myself As Fingers, You Open Petal By Petal Myself A Spring Opens Her First Rose.

The Intellectuals' Chief Cause Of Anguish Are One Another's Works. Jacques Barzun, 1959 All Ignorance Toboggans Into Know And Trudges Up To Ignorance Again.

The Hardest Challenge Is To Be Yourself In A World Where Everyone Is Trying To Make You Be Somebody Else.

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.

Seeming's Enough For Slaves Of Space And Time - Ours Is The Now And Here Of Freedom. Come.

May My Heart Always Be Open To Little Birds, Who Are The Secrets Of Living. Whatever They Sing Is Better Than To Know. And If Men Should Not Hear Them - Then Men Are Old.

A Man Who Had Fallen Among Thieves Lay By The Roadside On His Back Dressed In Fifteenthrate Ideas Wearing A Round Jeer For A Hat

Somewhere I Have Never Traveled, Gladly Beyond Any Experience, Your Eyes Have Their Silence; In Your Most Frail Gesture Are Things Which Enclose Me, Or Which I Cannot Touch Because They Are Too Near

I'd Rather Have Two Good Friends, Than 500,000 Admirers.

What Concerns Me Fundamentaly Is A Meteoric Burlesk Melodrama, Born Of The Immemorial Adage Love Will Find A Way.

May My Mind Stroll About Hungry And Fearless And Thirsty And Supple And Even If Its Sunday May I Be Wrong For Whenever Men Are Right They Are Not Young

Because It's Spring Things Dare To Do People (& Not The Other Way Round)because It 's A Pril Lives Lead Their Own Persons(in Stead Of Everybodyelse's)but What's Wholly Marvellous My Darling Is That You & I Are More Than You & I(be Ca Us E It's We)

What If A Much Of A Which Of A Wind Gives The Truth To Summer's Lie; Bloodies With Dizzying Leaves The Sun And Yanks Immortal Stars Awry?

I Have Found What You Are Like The Rain (who Feathers Frightened Fields With The Superior Dust-of-sleep. Wields Easily The Pale Club Of The Wind And Swirled Justly Souls Of Flower Strike The Air In Utterable Coolness Deeds Of Gren Thrilling Light With Thinned Newfragile Yellows Lurch And.press --in The Woods Which Stutter And Sing And The Coolness Of Your Smile Is Stirringofbirds Between My Arms;but I Should Rather Than Anything Have(almost When Hugeness Will Shut Quietly)almost, Your Kiss

Women And Men(both Little And Small) Cared For Anyone Not At All They Sowed Their Isn’t They Reaped Their Same Sun Moon Stars Rain

Maybe God Is A Child ‘s Hand)very Carefully Bring -ing To You And To Me(and Quite With Out Crushing)the Papery Weightless Diminutive World With A Hole In It Out Of Which Demons With Wings Would Be Streaming If Something Had(maybe They Couldn’t Agree)not Happened(and Floating- Ly Int O

You Shall Above All Things Be Glad And Young.

(and From My Thighs Which Shrug And Pant A Murdering Rain Leapingly Reaches The Upward Singular Deepest Flower Which She Carries In A Gesture Of Her Hips)

When Skies Are Hanged And Oceans Drowned, The Single Secret Will Still Be Man

The Hardest Fight A Man Has To Fight Is To Live In A World Where Every Single Day Someone Is Trying To Make You Someone You Do Not Want To Be--

And The Coolness Of Your Smile Is Stirringofbirds Between My Arms

Art Is A Mystery. A Mystery Is Something Immeasurable.

That Strictly(and How)scienti Fic Land Of Supernod Where Freedom Is Compulsory And Only Man Is God.

Damn Everything But The Circus! ...damn Everything That Is Grim, Dull, Motionless, Unrisking, Inward Turning, Damn Everything That Won't Get Into The Circle, That Won't Enjoy. That Won't Throw It's Heart Into The Tension, Surprise, Fear And Delight Of The Circus, The Round World, The Full Existence.

Notice The Convulsed Orange Inch Of Moon Perching On This Silver Minute Of Evening

I Love You Much Most Beautiful Darling More Than Anyone On The Earth And I Like You Better Than Everything In The Sky.

When God Decided To Invent Everything He Took One Reath Bigger Than A Circustent And Everything Began

Time Is A Tree (this Life One Leaf) But Love Is The Sky And I Am For You Just So Long And Long Enough

Someone Asked Me What Home Was And All I Could Think Of Were The Stars On The Tip Of Your Tongue, The Flowers Sprouting From Your Mouth, The Roots Entwined In The Gaps Between Your Fingers, The Ocean Echoing Inside Of Your Ribcage.

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

I Like My Body When It Is With Your Body. It Is So Quite New A Thing. Muscles Better And Nerves More. I Like Your Body. I Like What It Does, I Like Its Hows. I Like To Feel The Spine Of Your Body And Its Bones, And The Trembling -firm-smooth Ness And Which I Will Again And Again And Again Kiss, I Like Kissing This And That Of You, I Like, Slowly Stroking The, Shocking Fuzz Of Your Electric Fur, And What-is-it Comes Over Parting Flesh ... And Eyes Big Love-crumbs, And Possibly I Like The Thrill Of Under Me You So Quite New.

All In Green Went My Love Riding

I'm Living So Far Beyond My Income That We May Almost Be Said To Be Living Apart.

-before Leaving My Room I Turn, And (stooping Through The Morning) Kiss This Pillow, Dear Where Our Heads Lived And Were.

You Have Played, (i Think) And Broke The Toys You Were Fondest Of, And Are A Little Tired Now; Tired Of Things That Break, And— Just Tired. So Am I.

Xvii Lady, I Will Touch You With My Mind. Touch You And Touch And Touch Until You Give Me Suddenly A Smile,shyly Obscene (lady I Will Touch You With My Mind.)touch You,that Is All, Lightly And You Utterly Will Become With Infinite Care The Poem Which I Do Not Write.

I Shall Imagine Life Is Not Worth Dying,if (and When)roses Complain Their Beauties Are In Vain But Though Mankind Persuades Itself That Every Weed's A Rose,roses(you Feel Certain)will Only Smile

Must's A Schoolroom In The Month Of May

The Courage To Receive Time's Mightiest Dream.

Because You Aren't Afraid To Kiss The Dirt (and Consequently Dare To Climb The Sky)

Take The Matter Of Being Born. What Does Being Born Mean To Most People?

A Salesman Is An It That Stinks To Please But Whether To Please Itself Or Someone Else Makes No More Difference Than If It Sells Hate Condoms Education Snakeoil Vac Uumcleaners Terror Strawberries Democ Ra(caveat Emptor)cy Superfluous Hair

It Takes Three To Make A Child.

I 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.

I Thank You God For This Most Amazing Day, For The Leaping Greenly Spirits Of Trees, And For The Blue Dream Of Sky And For Everything Which Is Natural, Which Is Infinite, Which Is Yes.

Miracles Are To Come. With You I Leave A Remembrance Of Miracles: They Are By Somebody Who Can Love And Who Shall Be Continually Reborn, A Human Being.

Who Pays Any Attention To The Syntax Of Things Will Never Wholly Kiss You

May I Be I Is The Only Prayer--not May I Be Great Or Good Or Beautiful Or Wise Or Strong.

In The Street Of The Sky Night Walks Scattering Poems

Who Knows If The Moon's A Balloon,coming Out Of A Keen City In The Sky--filled With Pretty People? ( And If You And I Should Get Into It,if They Should Take Me And Take You Into Their Balloon, Why Then We'd Go Up Higher With All The Pretty People Than Houses And Steeples And Clouds: Go Sailing Away And Away Sailing Into A Keen City Which Nobody's Ever Visited,where Always It's Spring)and Everyone's In Love And Flowers Pick Themselves

Love Is Thicker Than Forget More Thinner Than Recall More Seldom Than A Wave Is Wet More Frequent Than To Fail It Is Most Mad And Moonly And Less It Shall Unbe Than All The Sea Which Only Is Deeper Than The Sea Love Is Less Always Than To Win Less Never Than Alive Less Bigger Than The Least Begin Less Littler Than Forgive It Is Most Sane And Sunly And More It Cannot Die Than All The Sky Which Only Is Higher Than The Sky

Let It Go -- The Smashed Word Broken Open Vow Or The Oath Cracked Length Wise -- Let It Go It Was Sworn To Go Let Them Go -- The Truthful Liars And The False Fair Friends And The Boths And Neithers -- You Must Let Them Go They Were Born To Go Let All Go -- The Big Small Middling Tall Bigger Really The Biggest And All Things -- Let All Go Dear So Comes Love

And Now You Are And I Am And We're A Mystery Which Will Never Happen Again.

Lovers Alone Wear Sunlight.

How Should Tasting Touching Hearing Seeing Breathing Any Lifted From The No Of All Nothing Human Merely Being Doubt Unimaginable You?

Love Is The Voice Under All Silences, The Hope Which Has No Opposite In Fear; The Strength So Strong Mere Force Is Feebleness: The Truth More First Than Sun, More Last Than Star.

For Surely As Each November Has Its April, Mysteries Only Are Significant; And One Mystery-of-mysteries Creates Them All: Nothing False And Possible Is Love (who's Imagined,therefore Limitless) Love's To Giving As To Keeping's Give; As Yes Is To If,love Is To Yes

The First Step To Expanding Your Reality Is To Discard The Tendency To Exclude Things From Possibility.

Once We Believe In Ourselves, We Can Risk Curiosity, Wonder, Spontaneous Delight, Or Any Experience That Reveals The Human Spirit.

A Pretty Girl Who Is Naked / Is Worth A Million Statues

Love Is A Place & Through This Place Of Love Move (with Brightness Of Peace) All Places Yes Is A World & In This World Of Yes Live (skillfully Curled) All Worlds

Hopes Dance Best On Bald Men's Hair

More Each Particular Person Is(my Love) Alive Than Every World Can Understand And Now You Are And I Am Now And We're A Mystery That Will Never Happen Again, A Miracle Which Has Never Happened Before And Shining This Our Now Must Come To Then

Tomorrow Is Our Permanent Address.

The Moon Rattles Like A Fragment Of Angry Candy

As Small As A World As Large As Alone.

We Can Never Be Born Enough.

-tomorrow Is Our Permanent Address And There They’ll Scarcely Find Us(if They Do, We’ll Move Away Still Further:into Now

Let Must Or If Be Damned With Whomever's Afraid Down With Ought With Because With Every Brain Which Thinks It Thinks, Nor Dares To Feel.

There Are Certain Things In Which One Is Unable To Believe For The Simple Reason That He Never Ceases To Feel Them. Things Of This Sort - Things Which Are Always Inside Of Us And In Fact Are Us And Which Consequently Will Not Be Pushed Off Or Away Where We Can Begin Thinking About Them - Are No Longer Things; They, And The Us Which They Are, Equals A Verb; An Is.

Life's Not A Paragraph And Death I Think Is No Parenthesis

It May Take Two People To Make A Really Beautiful Mistake.

One Day Anyone Died I Guess (and Noone Stooped To Kiss His Face) Busy Folk Buried Them Side By Side Little By Little And Was By Was

I Remember We All Cried Like The Missouri When My Uncle Sol's Coffin Lurched Because Somebody Pressed A Button (and Down Went My Uncle Sol And Started A Worm Farm)

Exists No Miracle Mightier Than This: To Feel.

I Fear No Fate(for You Are My Fate,my Sweet)i Want No World(for Beautiful You Are My World,my True) And It's You Are Whatever A Moon Has Always Meant And Whatever A Sun Will Always Sing Is You Here Is The Deepest Secret Nobody Knows

Yours Is The Light By Which My Spirit's Born: - You Are My Sun, My Moon, And All My Stars.

Every Artist's Strictly Illimitable Country Is Himself. An Artist Who Plays That Country False Has Committed Suicide; And Even A Good Lawyer Cannot Kill The Dead. But A Human Being Who's True To Himself - Whoever Himself May Be - Is Immortal; And All The Atomic Bombs Of All The Antiartists In Spacetime Will Never Civilize Immortality.

The Artist Is Not A Man Who Describes, But A Man Who Feels.

Love Being Such, Or Such, The Normal Corners Of Your Heart Will Never Guess How Much My Wonderful Jealousy Is Dark

Really Unreal World, Will You Perhaps Do The Breathing For Me While I Am Away?

Progress Is A Comfortable Disease.

I Like My Body When It Is With Your Body. It Is So Quite New A Thing. Muscles Better And Nerves More.

O Sweet Spontaneous Earth How Often Has The Naughty Thumb Of Science Prodded Thy Beauty Thou Answereth Them Only With Spring.

So Far As I Am Concerned, Poetry And Every Other Art Was And Is And Forever Will Be Strictly And Distinctly A Question Of Individuality... If Poetry Is Your Goal, You've Got To Forget All About Punishments And All About Rewards And All About Self-styled Obligations And Duties And Responsibilities Etcetera Ad Infinitum And Remember One Thing Only: That It's You - Nobody Else - Who Determine Your Destiny And Decide Your Fate. Nobody Else Can Be Alive For You; Nor Can You Be Alive For Anybody Else... There's The Artist's Responsibility; And The Most Awful Responsibility On Earth.

Maggie And Milly And Molly And May Went Down To The Beach (to Play One Day) And Maggie Discovered A Shell That Sang So Sweetly She Couldn't Remember Her Troubles, And Milly Befriended A Stranded Star Whose Rays Five Languid Fingers Were And Molly Was Chased By A Horrible Thing Which Raced Sideways While Blowing Bubbles And May Come Home With A Smooth Rounded Stone As Small As A World And As Big As Alone. For Whatever We Loose (like A You Or A Me) It Is Always Ourselves We Find In The Sea.

A Politician Is An Arse Upon Which Everyone Has Sat Except A Man.

And It's You Are Whatever A Moon Has Always Meant And Whatever A Sun Will Always Sing Is You

Romantic Poetry

All Which Isn't Singing Is Mere Talking... And All Talking's To Oneself Alone But The Very Song Of (as Mountains Feel And Lovers) Singing Is Silence.

A Wind Has Blown The Rain Away And Blown The Sky Away And All The Leaves Away, And The Trees Stand. I Think, I Too, Have Known Autumn Too Long.

May My Heart Always Be Open To Little Birds Who Are The Secrets Of Living

Laughing Is Just Another Way Of Showing People Your Wise

Spring Is Like A Perhaps Hand

Nobody, Not Even The Rain, Has Such Small Hands

The Sweet Small Clumsy Feet Of April Came Into The Ragged Meadow Of My Soul.

Since Feelings Come First, Who Cares About The Syntax Of Things?

Love Is The Every Only God

And Still The Mad Magnificent Herald Spring Assembles Beauty From Forgetfulness With The Wild Trump Of April:witchery Of Sound And Odour Drives The Wingless Thing Man Forth In The Bright Air.

Nothing Which We Are To Perceive In This World Equals The Power Of Your Intense Fragility:whose Texture Compels Me With The Colour Of Its Countries, Rendering Death And Forever With Each Breathing (i Do Not Know What It Is About You That Closes And Opens;only Something In Me Understands The Voice Of Your Eyes Is Deeper Than All Roses) Nobody,not Even The Rain, Has Such Small Hands -excerpt Of #35 From "100 Selected Poems

Listen; There's A Hell Of A Good Universe Next Door: Let's Go.

Suppose Life Is An Old Man Carrying Flowers On His Head.

The Whole Truth... Sings Only - And All Lovers Are The Song.

...and Down They Forgot As Up They Grew.

Equality Is What Does Not Exist Among Mortals.

My Sweet Old Etcetera Aunt Lucy During The Recent War Could And What Is More Did Tell You Just What Everybody Was Fighting For, My Sister Isabel Created Hundreds (and Hundreds) Of Socks Not To Mention Shirts Fleaproof Earwarmers Etcetera Wristers Etcetera, My Mother Hoped That I Would Die Etcetera Bravely Of Course My Father Used To Become Hoarse Talking About How It Was A Privilege And If Only He Could Meanwhile My Self Etcetera Lay Quietly In The Deep Mud Et Cetera (dreaming, Et Cetera, Of Your Smile Eyes Knees And Of Your Etcetera)

It Takes Courage To Grow Up And Become Who You Really Are.

They Believe In Christ And Longfellow, Both Dead

The Three Saddest Things Are The Ill Wanting To Be Well, The Poor Wanting To Be Rich, And The Constant Traveler Saying 'anywhere But Here'.

There's Time For Laughing And There's Time For Crying— For Hoping For Despair For Peace For Longing —a Time For Growing And A Time For Dying: A Night For Silence And A Day For Singing But More Than All(as All Your More Than Eyes Tell Me)there Is A Time For Timelessness

Now The Ears Of My Ears Awake And Now The Eyes Of My Eyes Are Opened.

Like The Burlesque Comedian, I Am Abnormally Fond Of That Precision Which Creates Movement.

So Far As I Am Concerned, Poetry And Every Other Art Was, Is, And Forever Will Be Strictly And Distinctly A Question Of Individuality.

The World Is Mud-luscious And Puddle-wonderful.

...remember One Thing Only: That It's You-nobody Else-who Determines Your Destiny And Decides Your Fate. Nobody Else Can Be Alive For You; Nor Can You Be Alive For Anybody Else.

A Connotation Of Infinity Sharpens The Temporal Splendor Of This Night When Souls Which Have Forgot Frivolity In Lowliness,noting The Fatal Flight Of Worlds Whereto This Earth’s A Hurled Dream Down Eager Avenues Of Lifelessness Consider For How Much Themselves Shall Gleam, In The Poised Radiance Of Perpetualness. When What’s In Velvet Beyond Doomed Thought Is Like A Woman Amorous To Be Known; And Man,whose Here Is Alway Worse Than Naught, Feels The Tremendous Yonder For His Own— On Such A Night The Sea Through Her Blind Miles Of Crumbling Silence Seriously Smiles

Knowledge Is A Polite Word For Dead But Not Buried Imagination.

A Bouquet Of Clumsy Words: You Know That Place Between Sleep And Awake Where You're Still Dreaming But It's Slowly Slipping? I Wish We Could Feel Like That More Often. I Also Wish I Could Click My Fingers Three Times And Be Transported To Anywhere I Like. I Wish That People Didn't Always Say 'just Wondering' When You Both Know There Was A Real Reason Behind Them Asking. And I Wish I Could Get Lost In The Stars. Listen, There's A Hell Of A Good Universe Next Door, Let's Go.

Kisses Are A Better Fate Than Wisdom.

Worms Are The Words But Joy's The Voice

Life ,for Eternal Us,is Now

Nobody Else Can Be Alive For You; Nor Can You Be Alive For Anybody Else.

N Othi N G Can S Urpas S The M Y Ster Y Of S Tillnes S

You Said Is There Anything Which Is Dead Or Alive More Beautiful Than My Body,to Have In Your Fingers (trembling Ever So Little)? Looking Into Your Eyes Nothing,i Said,except The Air Of Spring Smelling Of Never And Forever. ....and Through The Lattice Which Moved As If A Hand Is Touched By A Hand(which Moved As Though Fingers Touch A Girl's Breast, Lightly) Do You Believe In Always,the Wind Said To The Rain I Am Too Busy With My Flowers To Believe,the Rain Answered

Tumbling-hair Picker Of Buttercups Violets Dandelions And The Big Bullying Daisies Through The Field Wonderful With Eyes A Little Sorry Another Comes Also Picking Flowers

Meanwhile Myself Et Cetera Lay Quietly In The Deep Mud Et Cetera (dreaming, Et Cetera, Of Your Smile Eyes Knees And Of Your Etcetera.)

His Lips Drink Water But His Heart Drinks Wine

Unless You Love Someone, Nothing Else Makes Any Sense.

Nothing Makes Sense

Peering From Some High Window; At The Gold Of November Sunset (and Feeling That If Day Has To Become Night This Is A Beautiful Way).

An Artist, A Man, A Failure, Must Proceed.

Lessons Hide In His Wrinkles. Bells Ding In The Oldness Of Eyes. Did He By, Any Chance, Tell Children That There Are Such Monstrous Things As Peace And Goodwill...a Corrupter Of Youth No Doubt.

Since Feeling Is First Who Pays Any Attention To The Syntax Of Things Will Never Wholly Kiss You; Wholly To Be A Fool While Spring Is In The World My Blood Approves, And Kisses Are A Far Better Fate Than Wisdom Lady I Swear By All Flowers. Don't Cry --the Best Gesture Of My Brain Is Less Than Your Eyelids' Flutter Which Says We Are For Eachother: Then Laugh, Leaning Back In My Arms For Life's Not A Paragraph And Death I Think Is No Parenthesis

All By All And Deep By Deep And More By More They Dream Their Sleep Noone And Anyone Earth By April Wish By Spirit And If By Yes

We Do Not Believe In Ourselves Until Someone Reveals That Deep Inside Us Something Is Valuable, Worth Listening To, Worthy Of Our Trust, Sacred To Our Touch. Once We Believe In Ourselves We Can Risk Curiosity, Wonder, Spontaneous Delight Or Any Experience That Reveals The Human Spirit.

The Cambridge Ladies Who Live In Furnished Souls Are Unbeautiful And Have Comfortable Minds.

Love Is The Whole And More Than All.

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.

For Whatever We Lose (like A You Or A Me), It's Always Our Self We Find In The Sea.

Love Is The Voice Under All Silences, The Hope Which Has No Opposite In Fear. . .

What If A Dawn Of A Doom Of A Dream Bites This Universe In Two, Peels Forever Out Of His Grave, And Sprinkles Nowhere With Me And You?

Do Not Hate Or Fear The Artist In Yourselves... Honor And Love Him...do Not Try To Possess Him. Trust Him As Nobly As You Trust Tomorrow. Only The Artist In Yourself Is More Truthful Than The Night.

(existing's Tricky:but To Live's A Gift)

The Theory Of The Free Press Is Not That The Truth Will Be Presented Completely Or Perfectly In Any One Instance, But That The Truth Will Emerge From Free Discussion

Seeker Of Truth Follow No Path All Paths Lead Where Truth Is Here.

The Symbol Of All Art Is The Prism. The Goal Is Unrealism. The Method Is Destructive. To Break Up The White Light Of Objective Realism, Into The Secret Glories Which It Contains.

Buffalo Bill's Defunct

Here's To Opening And Upward... And To Yourself And Up With You And Up With And Up With Laughing.

Only By You My Heart Always Moves.

Nobody Loses All The Time.

The Most Wasted Of All Days Is One Without Laughter.

Writingis An Art; And Artistsare Human Beings. As A Human Being Stands, So A Human Being Is

An Intelligent Person Fights For Lost Causes, Realizing That Others Are Merely Effects

A Poet Is Someone Who Is Abnormally Fond Of That Precision Which Creates Movement. Which Is To Say The Highest Form Of Concentration Possible: Fascination; To Report On The Electrifying Experience Of Being

Deeds Cannot Dream What Dreams Can Do

O Sweet Spontaneous Earth How Often Have The Doting Fingers Of Prurient Philosophers Pinched And Poked Thee ,has The Naughty Thumb Of Science Prodded Thy Beauty .how Often Have Religions Taken Thee Upon Their Scraggy Knees Squeezing And Buffeting Thee That Thou Mightest Conceive Gods (but True To The Incomparable Couch Of Death Thy Rhythmic Lover Thou Answerest Them Only With Spring)

The Mind Is Its Own Beautiful Prisoner. Mind Looked Long At The Sticky Moon Opening In Dusk Her New Wings Then Decently Hanged Himself,one Afternoon. The Last Thing He Saw Was You Naked Amid Unnaked Things.

If There Are Any Heavens My Mother Will(all By Herself)have One. It Will Not Be A Pansy Heaven Or A Fragile Heaven Of Lilies-of-the-valley But It Will Be A Heaven Of Blackred Roses My Father Will Be(deep Like A Rose Tall Like A Rose) Standing Near My Swaying Over Her (silent) With Eyes Which Are Really Petals And See Nothing With The Face Of A Poet Really Which Is A Flower And Not A Face With Hands Which Whisper This Is My Beloved My (suddenly In Sunlight He Will Bow, And The Whole Garden Will Bow)

To Like An Individual Because He's Black Is Just As Insulting As To Dislike Him Because He Isn't White.

Such Was A Poet And Shall Be And Is -who'll Solve The Depths Of Horror To Defend A Sunbeam's Architecture With His Life: And Carve Immortal Jungles Of Despair To Hold A Mountain's Heartbeat In His Hand.

For Whenever Men Are Right They Are Not Young

...losing Through You What Seemed Myself, I Find Selves Unimaginably Mine; Beyond Sorrow's Own Joys And Hopings Very Fears Yours Is The Light By Which My Spirit's Born: Yours Is The Darkness Of My Soul's Return... You Are My Sun, My Moon, And All My Stars.

A World Of Made Is Not A World Of Born

One's Not Half Two. It's Two Are Halves Of One.

My Mother Hoped That I Would Die Etcetera Bravely Of Course My Father Used To Become Hoarse Talking About How It Was A Privilege And If Only He Could

You Are My Sun, My Moon, And All My Stars.

I Will Take The Sun In My Mouth And Leap Into The Ripe Air Alive With Closed Eyes To Dash Against Darkness

Unbeing Dead Isn't Being Alive.

The Only Man, Woman, Or Child Who Wrote A Simple Declarative Sentence With Seven Grammatical Errors "is Dead."

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 Who’s Trying Not To Laugh At Somebody Who’s Trying Not To Cry

All Ignorance Toboggans Into Know And Trudges Up To Ignorance Again.

I Was Too Tired To Think. I Merely Felt The Town As A Unique Unreality. What Was It? I Knew -- The Moon's Picture Of A Town. These Streets With Their Houses Did Not Exist, They Were But A Ludicrous Projection Of The Moon's Sumptuous Personality. This Was A City Of Pretend, Created By The Hypnotism Of Moonnight. -- Yet When I Examined The Moon She Too Seemed But A Painting Of A Moon And The Sky In Which She Lived A Fragile Echo Of Color. If I Blew Hard The Whole Shy Mechanism Would Collapse Gently With A Neat Soundless Crash. I Must Not, Or Lose All.

True Wars Are Never Won.

When Man Determined To Destroy Himself He Picked The Was Of Shall And Finding Only Why Smashed It Into Because.

Nothing Recedes Like Progress.

Trust Your Heart If The Seas Catch Fire, Live By Love Though The Stars Walk Backward.

If A Poet Is Anybody, He Is Somebody To Whom Things Made Matter Very Little - Somebody Who Is Obsessed By Making.

By The Way, A Gendarme Assured Me This Is Not A Prison.

Who Can Tell Truth From Falsehood Any More? I Say It, And You Feel It In Your Hearts: No Man Or Woman On This Big Small Earth. How Should Our Sages Miss The Mark Of Life, And Our Most Skillful Players Lose The Game? Your Hearts Will Tell You, As My Heart Has Told Me: Because All Know, And No One Understands.

One Pierced Moment Whiter Than The Rest -turning From The Tremendous Lie Of Sleep I Watch The Roses Of The Day Grow Deep.

In A Middle Of A Room Stands A Suicide Sniffing A Paper Rose Smiling To A Self "somewhere It Is Spring And Sometimes People Are In Real:imagine Somewhere Real Flowers,but I Can't Imagine Real Flowers For If I Could,they Would Somehow Not Be Real" (so He Smiles Smiling)"but I Will Not Everywhere Be Real To You In A Moment" The Is Blond With Small Hands "& Everything Is Easier Than I Had Guessed Everything Would Be;even Remembering The Way Who Looked At Whom First,anyhow Dancing

Your Poems Are Rather Hard To Understand, Whereas Your Paintings Are So Easy. Easy? Of Course - You Paint Flowers And Girls And Sunsets; Things That Everybody Understands. I Never Met Him. Who? Everybody. Did You Ever Hear Of Nonrepresentational Painting? I Am. Pardon Me? I Am A Painter, And Painting Is Nonrepresentational. Not All Painting. No: Housepainting Is Representational. And What Does A Housepainter Represent? Ten Dollars An Hour. In Other Words, You Don't Want To Be Serious - It Takes Two To Be Serious.

America Makes Prodigious Mistakes, America Has Colossal Faults, But One Thing Cannot Be Denied: America Is Always On The Move. She May Be Going To Hell, Of Course, But At Least She Isn't Standing Still.

And This Is The Wonder That's Keeping The Stars Apart I Carry Your Heart [ I Carry It In My Heart ]

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Roger Nash Baldwin

Floyd Mayweather, Jr.

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