a poem on thursday : anyone lived in a pretty how town

Anyone Lived in a Pretty How Town 
ee cummings

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 sin'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 stopped 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
with by spirit and if by yes.

Women and men (both doing and ding)
sumer autumn winter spring
reaped their sowing and went their came
sun moon stars rain


Sue said...

Ashamed to say I have not heard of EE Cummings before. An interesting life - and he went to Harvard.
Am finding it hard to find a poem in reply, but will keep trying!

Sue said...

A poem with ? a parallel theme - ie. the passage of time ... but by the way - just as another piece to file away for 'Trivial Pursuit', did you know that 'anyone lived in a pretty how town' was adapted into a short film by George Lucas, who also directed 'American Graffiti'? Can you imagine it?

By Mary Oliver

What is the good life now? Why,
look here, consider
the moon's white crescent

rounding, slowly, over
the half month to still another
perfect circle--

the shining eye
that lightens the hills,
that lays down the shadows

of the branches of the trees,
that summons the flowers
to open their sleepy faces and look up

into the heavens.
I used to hurry everywhere,
and leaped over the running creeks.

There wasn't
time enough for all the wonderful things
I could think of to do

in a single day. Patience
comes to the bones
before it takes root in the heart

as another good idea.
I say this
as I stand in the woods

and study the patterns
of the moon shadows,
or stroll down into the waters

that now, late summer, have also
caught the fever, and hardly move
from one eternity to another.