E E Cummings

October 4, 1894 - September 3, 1962

Background.
Edward Estlin Cummings was born on October 4, 1894 in Cambridge Massachussettes to Edward Cummings and Rebecca Haswell Clarke. His father was a very successful man who E.E. believed could accomplish anything he desired. He pushed E.E. to be successful and to do well in his studies, while E.E.'s mother greatly encouraged his writing of poetry, so E.E. had much support from his parents. He went to Harvard University in 1911 and graduated in 1915 with a degree of Bachelor of Arts, also having his very own poems published that year in Harvard Advocate.

Writing Career.
In 1917, E.E. enlisted for the Norton-Hajes Ambulance Corps with one of his friends. After he was given his assignment, E.E. and another friend were arrested for suspicion of espionage. Cummings spoke openly about his anti-war views and his lack of hatred for the Germans so he was sent to a military detention camp for 3 and a half months which he later talked about in his first novel, The Enormous Room. In relation to poetry it was hard for E.E. to find a publisher for his poems and for people to accept his style of poetry because it was a style no one was used to in those days. Years after that, Cummings had many achievements, one being the Dial Award for poetry in 1925 and his two poetry volumes: is 5 (1926) and W (Viva; 1931).

Poetry.
somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond.

somewhere i have never travelled,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
your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully ,suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility:whose texture
compels me with the color 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