e. e. cummings

since feeling is first ~ A Poem by e. e. cummings

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Why Feeling is First: Embracing e. e. cummings in a Digital Age

since feeling is first

e. e. cummings

since feeling is first
who pays any attention
to the syntax of things
will never wholly kiss you;

wholly to be a fool
while Spring is in the world

my blood approves,
and kisses are a better fate
than wisdom
lady i swear by all the flowers. Don’t cry
– the best gesture of my brain is less than
your eyelids’ flutter which says

we are for each other: then
laugh, leaning back in my arms
for life’s not a paragraph

and death i think is no parenthesis

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The Pulse Over the Paragraph

In his iconic poem “since feeling is first,” e. e. cummings delivers a defiant manifesto for the heart. He argues that those obsessed with the “syntax of things”—the rigid rules, logic, and structures of life—will never truly experience the depth of a “whole” kiss or the vibrancy of existence. To cummings, intuition and emotion are more “wise” than any intellectual pursuit.

In our contemporary society, we are drowning in “syntax.” We hyper-analyze our social interactions, curate our lives via algorithms, and optimize our productivity until we are more machine than human. We treat life like a series of data points to be edited. Cummings reminds us that “life’s not a paragraph.” It cannot be contained by neat margins or explained away with perfect grammar.

By prioritizing “blood” (instinct) over the “brain” (logic), we reclaim our humanity. In a world of cold screens, the “flutter of an eyelid” remains more profound than a thousand lines of code.

As you read this poem, ask yourself:

In your drive to organize and optimize your daily life, what spontaneous “flutters” of joy are you accidentally editing out?

love is a place ~ A Poem by e. e. cummings

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love is a place

e. e. cummings

love is a place
& through this place of
love move
(with brightness of peace)
all places

yes is a world
& in this world of
yes live
(skilfully curled)
all worlds

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in the rain ~ A Poem by e. e. cummings

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in the rain

e. e. cummings

In the rain-darkness,
the sunset
being sheathed i sit
and think of you the holy
city which is your face
your little cheeks the streets
of smiles

your eyes half-
thrush
half-angel and your drowsy
lips where float flowers of kiss

and
there is the sweet shy pirouette
your hair
and then
your dance song
soul rarely-beloved
a single star is
uttered, and i

think
of you

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Today’s Poem: two little whos by e. e. cummings

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two little whos

e. e. cummings

2 little whos
(he and she)
under are this
wonderful tree

smiling stand
(all realms of where
and when beyond)
now and here

(far from a grown
-up i&you-
ful world of known)
who and who

(2 little ams
and over them this
aflame with dreams
incredible is)

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Today’s Poem: here’s to opening and upward by e. e. cummings

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here’s to opening and upward

e. e. cummings

here’s to opening and upward, to leaf and to sap
and to your(in my arms flowering so new)
self whose eyes smell of the sound of rain

and here’s to silent certainly mountains;and to
a disappearing poet of always,snow
and to morning;and to morning’s beautiful friend
twilight(and a first dream called ocean)and

let must or if be damned with whomever’s afraid
down with ought with because with every brain
which thinks it thinks,nor dares to feel(but up
with joy;and up with laughing and drunkenness)

here’s to one undiscoverable guess
of whose mad skill each world of blood is made
(whose fatal songs are moving in the moon

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Today’s Poem: i am a little church (no great cathedral) by e. e. cummings

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i am a little church (no great cathedral)

e. e. cummings

i am a little church(no great cathedral)
far from the splendor and squalor of hurrying cities
-i do not worry if briefer days grow briefest,
i am not sorry when sun and rain make april

my life is the life of the reaper and the sower;
my prayers are prayers of earth’s own clumsily striving
(finding and losing and laughing and crying)children
whose any sadness or joy is my grief or my gladness

around me surges a miracle of unceasing
birth and glory and death and resurrection:
over my sleeping self float flaming symbols
of hope,and i wake to a perfect patience of mountains

i am a little church(far from the frantic
world with its rapture and anguish)at peace with nature
-i do not worry if longer nights grow longest;
i am not sorry when silence becomes singing

winter by spring, i lift my diminutive spire to
merciful Him Whose only now is forever:
standing erect in the deathless truth of His presence
(welcoming humbly His light and proudly His darkness)

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