we asked for poems; you gave us poems

When we asked you for your favorite e.e. cummings poem in the lead up to our Feb. 11 hour the much-beloved American poet, we weren't sure if you would deliver. There's no judgement or prejudice there: we really didn't know if our many followers, fans and listeners would have enough impish delight to make for a meaningful bit of spontaneous poetry.

Let us say here on the record: we were very, very wrong.

Your reaction to the Facebook post on Monday evening carried over into today, and we're glad that you all love Edward Estlin Cummings as much as our guest, author Susan Cheever (whose great new biography of the poet is on sale now, by the way). Some of your favorites are sampled here; you can many more at your local library or bookstore or on such great sites as poets.org or poetryfoundation.org.

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

[in Just-]
in Just-
spring          when the world is mud-
luscious the little
lame balloonman
 
whistles          far          and wee
 
and eddieandbill come
running from marbles and
piracies and it's
spring
 
when the world is puddle-wonderful
 
the queer
old balloonman whistles
far          and             wee
and bettyandisbel come dancing
 
from hop-scotch and jump-rope and
 
it's
spring
and
 
         the
 
                  goat-footed
 
balloonMan          whistles
far
and
wee

anyone lived in a pretty how town

anyone lived in a pretty how town

(with up so floating many bells down)

spring summer autumn winter

he sang his didn't he danced his did

Women and men(both little and small)

cared for anyone not at all

they sowed their isn't they reaped their same

sun moon stars rain

children guessed(but only a few and down they forgot as up they grew

autumn winter spring summer)

that noone loved him more by more

when by now and tree by leaf

she laughed his joy she cried his grief

bird by snow and stir by still

anyone's any was all to her

someones married their everyones

laughed their cryings and did their dance

(sleep wake hope and then)they

said their nevers they slept their dream

stars rain sun moon

(and only the snow can begin to explain

how children are apt to forget to remember

with up so floating many bells down)

one day anyone died i guess

(and noone stooped to kiss his face)

busy folk buried them side by side

little by little and was by was

all by all and deep by deep

and more by more they dream their sleep

noone and anyone earth by april

wish by spirit and if by yes.

Women and men(both dong and ding)

summer autumn winter spring

reaped their sowing and went their came

sun moon stars rain