e. e. cummings

The typographical and syntactical oddities of e. e. cummings (1894-1962), never much appreciated by critics, charmed generations of readers. At the time of his death, only Robert Frost sold more books of poetry. Perhaps the avant-garde quirkiness of his poems disguised their essential sentimentality, for many rely on such tired images as hearts and flowers. When he wasn’t wallowing in the twee, he was writing belligerent poems of pacificism which strike this fairly dovish reader as childishly contemptuous and naïve.

Nevertheless, cummings was essential reading for me as a young poet. Not only did his rebellious posture and fey sexiness appeal to me, his playful and electrifying use of language inspired me to cut loose and have my own way with words. (Having our way with words is what we poets do, after all.) So I recommend his work to the young and the young at heart—but please be wary of such poems as this one, which reads as if it were written on a matchbook cover at a wedding reception by a champagne-sozzled poet who couldn’t write his way out of a cellophane bag.

the little bride and groom

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