E E Cummings Poetry Quotes & Sayings
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Top E E Cummings Poetry Quotes

The man who invented Eskimo Pie made a million dollars, so one is told, but E.E. Cummings, whose verse has been appearing off andon for three years now, and whose experiments should not be more appalling to those interested in poetry than the experiment of surrounding ice-cream with a layer of chocolate was to those interested in soda fountains, has hardly made a dent in the doughy minds of our so-called poetry lovers. — John Dos Passos

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 — E. E. Cummings

I really love poetry. I'm a big E.E. Cummings fan and a big Walt Whitman fan, and I have a big book of poetry. — Mae Whitman

These are all direct quotes, except every time they use a curse word, I'm going to use the name of a famous American poet:
'You Walt Whitman-ing, Edna St. Vincent Millay! Go Emily Dickinson your mom!'
'Thanks for the advice, you pathetic piece of E.E. Cummings, but I think I'm gonna pass.'
'You Robert Frost-ing Nikki Giovanni! Get a life, nerd. You're a virgin.'
'Hey bro, you need to go outside and get some fresh air into you. Or a girlfriend.'
I need to get a girlfriend into me? I think that shows a fundamental lack of comprehension about how babies are made. — John Green

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. — E. E. Cummings

To be nobody but
yourself in a world
which is doing its best day and night to make you like
everybody else means to fight the hardest battle
which any human being can fight and never stop fighting. — E. E. Cummings

The hills
like poets put on
purple thought against
the
magnificent clamor of
day
tortured
in gold — E. E. Cummings

If
If freckles were lovely, and day was night,
And measles were nice and a lie warn't a lie,
Life would be delight,
But things couldn't go right
For in such a sad plight
I wouldn't be I.
If earth was heaven and now was hence,
And past was present, and false was true,
There might be some sense
But I'd be in suspense
For on such a pretense
You wouldn't be you.
If fear was plucky, and globes were square,
And dirt was cleanly and tears were glee
Things would seem fair,
Yet they'd all despair,
For if here was there
We wouldn't be we. — E. E. Cummings

if i
or anybody don't
know where it her his
my next meal's coming from
i say to hell with that
that doesn't matter (and if
he she it or everybody gets a
bellyful without
lifting my finger i say to hell
with that i
say that doesn't matter) but
if somebody
or you are beautiful or
deep or generous what
i say is
whistle that
sing that yell that spell
that out big (bigger than cosmic
rays w ar earthquakes famine or the ex
prince of whoses diving into
a whatses to rescue miss nobody's
probably handbag) because i say that's not
swell (get me) babe not (understand me) lousy
kid that's something else my sweet (i feel that's
true) — E. E. Cummings

When I took my poetry class in school. I read an e. e. cummings poem. I don't mind eels except how they feels and maybe as meals. I knew there was hope for me. — Stanley Victor Paskavich

After I consumed Frost in his entirety, my days of exploration began. I read The Diving Comedy while leafing through E. E. Cummings. I read Sidney and Milton and Shelley, piecing together my own aesthetics, my own defence of poetry. I felt alone and religious and desperately sad. — Spencer Gordon

Hate blows a bubble of despair into
hugeness world system universe and bang
-fear buries a tomorrow under woe
and up comes yesterday most green and young — E. E. Cummings

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 — E. E. Cummings

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 — E. E. Cummings

For life's not a paragraph/ and death, i think, is no parenthesis. — E. E. Cummings

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 men are old
may my mind stroll about hungry
and fearless and thirsty and supple
and even if it's sunday may i be wrong
for whenever men are right they are not young
and may myself do nothing usefully
and love yourself so more than truly
there's never been quite such a fool who could fail
pulling all the sky over him with one smile — E. E. Cummings

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. — E. E. Cummings

Unbeing dead isn't being alive. — E. E. Cummings

A politician is an arse upon
which everyone has sat except a man — E. E. Cummings

Since the thing perhaps is
to eat flowers and not to be afraid — E. E. Cummings

For any ruffian of the sky
your kingbird doesn't give a damn-
his royal warcry is I AM
and he's the soul of chivalry
in terror of whose furious beak
(as sweetly singing creatures know)
cringes the hugest heartless hawk
and veers the vast most crafty crow
your kingbird doesn't give a damn
for murderers of high estate
whose mongrel creed is Might Makes Right
-his royal warcry is I AM
true to his mate his chicks his friends
he loves because he cannot fear
(you see it in the way he stand
and looks and leaps upon the air) — E. E. Cummings

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. — E. E. Cummings

Well, write poetry, for God's sake, it's the only thing that matters. — E. E. Cummings

How do you like your blue-eyed boy Mr Death? — E. E. Cummings

a billion brains may coax undeath
from fancied fact and spaceful time--
no heart can leap, no soul can breathe
but by the sizeless truth of a dream
whose sleep is the sky and the earth and the sea
For love are in you am in i are in we — E. E. Cummings

Lovers alone wear sunlight. — E. E. Cummings

I carry your heart with me (I carry it in my heart)I am never without it (anywhere
I go you go,my dear; and whatever is done by only me is your doing,my darling)
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
(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) — E. E. Cummings

Down with hell and heaven and all the religious fuss
infinity pleased our parents
one inch looks good to us — E. E. Cummings

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 — E. E. Cummings

sweet spring is your
time is my time is our
time for springtime is lovetime
and viva sweet love
(all the merry little birds are
flying in the floating in the
very spirits singing in
are winging in the blossoming)
lovers go and lovers come
awandering awondering
but any two are perfectly
alone there's nobody else alive
(such a sky and such a sun
i never knew and neither did you
and everybody never breathed
quite so many kinds of yes)
not a tree can count his leaves
each herself by opening
but shining who by thousands mean
only one amazing thing
(secretly adoring shyly
tiny winging darting floating
merry in the blossoming
always joyful selves are singing)
sweet spring is your
time is my time is our
time for springtime is lovetime
and viva sweet love — E. E. Cummings

So far as I am concerned, poetry and every other art was, is, and forever will be strictly and distinctly a question of individuality. — E. E. Cummings