in spite of everything
which breathes and moves, since
(with white longest hands
neatening each crease)
will smooth entirely our minds
-before leaving my room
i turn, and (stooping
through the morning) kiss
this pillow, dear
where our heads lived and were.
“In spite of everything” by e.e. cummings
Poetry, naturally, forces all men to succumb to its power. Nevertheless, it requires men who understand poetry to unlock the right words. For many writers are drawn to poetry (it being a high art form and pleasant on the ears), but only a select grasp its twists and turns. I am not one of those writers. Poetry evades my attempts to release it from its bonds. It doesn’t want me, but that doesn’t mean I can’t find truth from what has been written.
This is why I love e.e. cummings. He is famous for is nonsensical poetry (e.g. “rpophessagr,” the grasshopper poem). He also creates such profound beauty of the human sort that goes beyond his pretentious need to make non-meaning meaning amongst critics and scholars. This poem above is exactly that. There may be no depth to it. However, there is raw emotion. For poets, if they cannot or will not produce depth, must produce emotion. If you cannot make me reconsider my beliefs, then make me feel those beliefs.