hush, Sunlight

More painting last night. Which meant tearing down another three bookshelves. Which meant discovering more sleeping books.

This is page 281 of E.E. Cummings Complete Poems, 1913-1962. A birthday gift from a boyfriend a long time ago.

I've dated a handful of guys who wrote poetry (of course I did. english major. you can own us with poem.) but J was the only poet.

He looked after his poetry the way he tended to his bonsai: Daily. Deliberately. Giving it room to grow.

He didn't care much for cummings, but he knew that I did.

I loved this book to distraction.

Speaking of e.e.: his Thanksgiving (1956), in commemoration of the Hungarian Uprising, has been on my mind since the Georgia thing. See below.

THANKSGIVING (1956)

a monstering horror swallows
this unworld me by you
as the god of our fathers' father bows
to a which that walks like a who

but the voice-with-a-smile of democracy
announces night & day
"all poor little peoples that want to be free
just trust in the u s a"

suddenly uprose hungary
and she gave a terrible cry
"no slave's unlife shall murder me
for i will freely die"

she cried so high thermopylae
heard her and marathon
and all prehuman history
and finally The UN

"be quiet little hungary
and do as you are bid
a good kind bear is angary
we fear for the quo pro quid"

uncle sam shrugs his pretty
pink shoulders you know how
and he twitches a liberal titty
and lisps "i'm busy right now"

so rah-rah-rah democracy
let's all be as thankful as hell
and bury the statue of liberty
(because it begins to smell)

—e.e.cummings, Thanksgiving (1956)