e.e. cummings

) ive been

readingthe (com(plete poe)ms of eE cum)ming!s

Igotf orCh ristmas a-

nd I mustsay, ifcum mings were (onl)y kn-

own

fo RRanDomly rEcapItalized(caPita)ls

redis,tribu:ted p?unctuat!on;/

lo

ng

ty

po (

graphic) al

breaks

b;ro ke-

n wo rds,

and uncLosed parentheses),

then he

woul;d be

?aS f/ormu(laic apoe)t as

shake-

spear(es rigid iam)bic sonNets

s(penc)ers Spen)cerian, s,Tanz,as

or AnY of th e st!ct con-ven:tions HE

w asp resum (ably

trYing toex PLODE

A tolerable pastiche of his poetry would not be impossible.

But, what sets him apart as a real poet (as opposed to some smart-aleck with a key-board like myself) is a surprising and disarming tenderness that shines through because of, not in spite of, his typographical violations. It is this talent of his which is least replicable, as in the following piece, which stopped me dead on the middle of the page:

if there are any heavens my mother will(all by herself)have

one. It will not be a pansy heaven nor

a fragile heaven of lilies-of-the-valley but

it will be a heaven of blackred roses

-e.e. cummings (p. 353)