I move out of this room, that I have called home for the past nine months, this coming Saturday. It is a bitter-sweet move. In a sense, a place like this is never sustainable. Though I have lived here, the flat has changed its essence with first Terry moving out, then Charlotte; Maddy moved in, and people from the entirety of the building are packing up their belongings and transitioning to where ever life takes them next.
I mentioned I am working on my thesis. It is an awesome task. Awesome in the fullest sense of the word. Both fascinating, challenging, intimidating, and down right exhausting. I think it is most difficult just to begin. Next week I get to go to Stratford-Upon-Avon to do some research in the Library and Archives of the Shakespeare Birthplace Trust... sometimes I am so lucky.
So because I have a rose sitting on my desk, because I have delicious, cold strawberries and because summer is finally here in England... I feel nostalgic and I am reading poetry. I recently re-read this poem. It is by ee cummings... who has recently (in the past two years) managed to take the spot in my heart as the writer of my favorite love poems... I love the last stanza.
Enjoy!
Somewhere I have Never Traveled, 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
4 comments:
THIS IS what I was thinking of after that article too! <3
I love this poem.
i remember lots from summers gatherings while we were growing up. more so the water fights -how many hoses got linked together to stretch across the street to have our water wars? and the water balloon attacks? to much fun......
be safe and have a great day!
sending lots of love your way,
Jessica "down the street" Smith
I did not recognize this poem until the last line...
"nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands"
...which is among my favorites ever penned, and therefore the only line I recalled after I had forgotten the others. Cummings is an artist.
I too love this poem! Also, I would like to know where you will be moving, and what the address shall be. You still have another entire year at Leeds, no?
xo
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