Poetry

I always liked E. E. Cummings.

To be scathingly honest, I liked him before I read almost any of his poems, because it was the equivalent of “cool” in the uncool crowd I counted myself a part of: unusual enough to be “edgy” and old enough to be “classic”, so you could defend your choice to people who disliked either stodginess or modernity. (Why, yes, I was that shallow. High schoolers often are.)

Then I actually read his collected works.

Anyone who's actually studied poetry (which I wasn't at the time, though I have since somewhat become) knows better than to think E. E. Cummings' work is all free verse; his work has more structure than most casual mentions of his work give him credit for. Specifically, the man deserves acres of credit simply for writing sonnets that one can read without realizing that one has just read a sonnet.

Admittedly, having grown less Romantic (and less enamored of the Romantics) over time, I'm not so fond of much of his material and outlook — to the point where I have come to think "Listen, there's a hell of a good universe next door: let's go," is a much better phrase taken straight and out of context (as it so frequently is) than it is satirically, as Cummings meant it. I think perhaps I am exactly the sort of person Cummings thought of when he wrote the word manunkind — a technology-steeped reductionist, in less poetic terms. I don't really mind: he deplores me with such skill and flourish it's hard not to enjoy it.

Also I have recently read the moon looked into my window, which made me smile of itself: as usual, Cummings does it better than his successors.

---

Totally unrelatedly: Learn you a Haskell for Great Good! I haven't actually read through it, mind, but the title alone is delightful. (Hmm. Possibly not unrelated, then.)