Ink sketch by E. E. Cummings
Houghton Library, Harvard University
___________
A CHILD’S WORLD
EDWARD ESTLIN CUMMINGS had an idyllic childhood. He lived in a spacious family home where he was much loved in the midst of an extended family: parents, little sister, two grandmothers, an unmarried aunt, and a bachelor uncle—plus two servant girls and a black handyman who were also family. The Cummings home was in a quiet neighborhood in Cambridge, Massachusetts, where children’s games and rituals were partly traditional and partly spontaneous. His father, Edward Cummings, a Unitarian minister and former Harvard professor, had much free time to devote to Estlin. He took him to Bostock’s Animal Extravaganza, Forepaugh and Sells’ Circus, and Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show. He built him a tree house that even had a little stove on which Estlin and the neighbor children could pop corn and roast marshmallows. In addition, Estlin spent blissful summer months at Joy Farm in Silver Lake, New Hampshire, where his father taught him woodcraft and nature lore and in the evening his mother, Rebecca Cummings, read aloud to the family from Scott, Dickens, and Stevenson. His mother hoped that he would become a poet like Mr. Longfellow, whose spirit lingered on in Cambridge. She encouraged him to keep a journal and to write verses from the time he was a little boy.
The memory of these happy days live on in many poems that he wrote throughout his career, some of which are included in this section. In his first volume of verse, Tulips and Chimneys, he called them “Chansons Innocentes,” taking the title from a group of Debussy piano pieces. The best known of these, “in Just-,” began, in an early version, as an exercise in free verse for his Harvard class in “English Versification.” He was always able to identify with children and even with animals—as the prose poem “at the head of this street a gasping organ” makes clear. The form is one of many he tried in 1919 in imitation of Mallarmé.
As time went on, he wrote a number of poems in the rhythmic patterns and nonsense phrasing of nursery rhymes, “o by the by” and “if everything happens that can’t be done” come from his book 1 × 1, which was published in the midst of World War II in 1944. The joyous theme of that book is oneness, especially oneness in love, but the expressions of joy in life that emanate from the nursery rhymes are important contributions to his purpose, as he said, “of trying to cheer up my native land.” But Cummings could also give a satirical edge to his nonsense rhymes as is evident in “as freedom is a breakfastfood.” Yet even when he is displaying an awareness of darkness and doom—as dire as world catastrophe—he still can emerge with an optimistic outlook, as in “what if a much of a which of a wind.” An innocent optimism was so basic to his nature that no discouragements or fits of depression could smother it, and it bursts forth at some point in every book of poetry that he published.
who are you,little i
(five or six years old)
peering from some high
window;at the gold
of november sunset
(and feeling:that if day
has to become night
this is a beautiful way)
in Just-
spring when the world is mud-
luscious the little
lame balloonman
whistles far and wee
and eddieandbill come
running from marbles and
piracies and it’s
spring
when the world is puddle-wonderful
old balloonman whistles
far and wee
and bettyandisbel come dancing
from hop-scotch and jump-rope and
it’s
spring
and
the
goat-footed
balloonMan whistles
far
and
wee
who sharpens every dull
here comes the only man
reminding with his bell
to disappear a sun
and out of houses pour
maids mothers widows wives
bringing this visitor
their very oldest lives
one pays him with a smile
another with a tear
he never seems to care
he sharpens is to am
he sharpens say to sing
you’d almost cut your thumb
so right he sharpens wrong
and when their lives are keen
he throws the world a kiss
and slings his wheel upon
his back and off he goes
but we can hear him still
if now our sun is gone
reminding with his bell
to reappear a moon
O the sun comes up-up-up in the opening
sky(the all the
any merry every pretty each
bird sings birds sing
gay-be-gay because today’s today)the
romp cries i and the me purrs
you and the gentle
who-horns says-does moo-woo
(the prance with the
three white its stimpstamps)
champychumpchomps yes
the speckled strut begins to scretch and
scratch-scrutch
and scritch(while
the no-she-yes-he fluffies tittle
tattle did-he-does-she)& the
ree ray rye roh
rowster shouts
rawrOO
maggie and milly and molly and may
went down to the beach(to play one day)
and maggie discovered a shell that sang
so sweetly she couldn’t remember her troubles,and
milly befriended a stranded star
whose rays five languid fingers were;
and molly was chased by a horrible thing
which raced sideways while blowing bubbles:and
may came home with a smooth round stone
as small as a world and as large as alone.
For whatever we lose(like a you or a me)
it’s always ourselves we find in the sea
at the head of this street a gasping organ is waving moth-eaten tunes. a fattish hand turns the crank;the box spouts fairies,out of it sour gnomes tumble clumsily,the little box is spilling rancid elves upon neat sunlight into the flowerstricken air which is filthy with agile swarming sonal creatures
—Children,stand with circular frightened faces glaring at the shabby tiny smiling,man in whose hand the crank goes desperately, round and round pointing to the queer monkey
(if you toss him a coin he will pick it cleverly from,the air and stuff it seriously in,his minute pocket)Sometimes he does not catch a piece of money and then his master will yell at him over the music and jerk the little string and the monkey will sit,up, and look at,you with his solemn blinky eyeswhichneversmile and after he has caught a,penny or three,pennies he will be thrown a peanut(which he will open skilfully with his,mouth carefully holding,it,in his little toylike hand)and then he will stiff-ly throw the shell away with a small bored gesture that makes the children laugh.
But i don’t, the crank goes round desperate elves and hopeless gnomes and frantic fairies gush clumsily from the battered box fattish and mysterious the flowerstricken sunlight is thickening dizzily is reeling gently the street and the children and the monkeyandtheorgan and the man are dancing slowly are tottering up and down in a trembly mist of atrocious melody....tiniest dead tunes crawl upon my face my hair is lousy with mutilated singing microscopic things in my ears scramble faintly tickling putrescent atomies,
and
i feel the jerk of the little stringlthe tiny smiling shabby man is yelling over the music i understand him i shove my round red hat back on my head i sit up and blink at you with my solemn eyeswhichneversmile
for i am they are pointing at the queer monkey with a little oldish doll-like face and hairy arms like an ogre and rubbercolour-ed hands and feet filled with quick fingers and a remarkable tail which is allbyitself alive.(and he has a little red coat with i have a real pocket in it and the round funny hat with a big feather is tied under myhis chin.) that climbs and cries and runs and floats like a toy on the end of a string
who were so dark of heart they might not speak,
a little innocence will make them sing;
teach them to see who could not learn to look
—from the reality of all nothing
will actually lift a luminous whole;
turn sheer despairing to most perfect gay,
nowhere to here,never to beautiful:
a little innocence creates a day.
And something thought or done or wished without
a little innocence,although it were
as red as terror and as green as fate,
greyly shall fail and dully disappear—
but the proud power of himself death immense
is not so as a little innocence
o by the by
has anybody seen
little you-i
who stood on a green
hill and threw
his wish at blue
with a swoop and a dart
out flew his wish
(it dived like a fish
but it climbed like a dream)
throbbing like a heart
singing like a flame
blue took it my
far beyond far
and high beyond high
bluer took it your
but bluest took it our
away beyond where
what a wonderful thing
is the end of a string
(murmurs little you-i
as the hill becomes nil)
and will somebody tell
me why people let go
if everything happens that can’t be done
(and anything’s righter
than books
could plan)
the stupidest teacher will almost guess
(with a run
skip
around we go yes)
there’s nothing as something as one
one hasn’t a why or because or although
(and buds know better
than books
don’t grow)
one’s anything old being everything new
(with a what
which
around we come who)
one’s everyanything so
so world is a leaf so tree is a bough
(and birds sing sweeter
than books
tell how)
so here is away and so your is a my
(with a down
up
around again fly)
forever was never till now
now i love you and you love me
(and books are shuter
than books
can be)
and deep in the high that does nothing but fall
(with a shout
around we go all)
there’s somebody calling who’s we
we’re anything brighter than even the sun
(we’re everything greater
than books
might mean)
we’re everyanything more than believe
(with a spin
leap
alive we’re alive)
we’re wonderful one times one
as freedom is a breakfastfood
or truth can live with right and wrong
or molehills are from mountains made
—long enough and just so long
will being pay the rent of seem
and genius please the talentgang
and water most encourage flame
as hatracks into peachtrees grow
or hopes dance best on bald men’s hair
and every finger is a toe
and any courage is a fear
—long enough and just so long
will the impure think all things pure
and hornets wail by children stung
or as the seeing are the blind
and robins never welcome spring
nor flatfolk prove their world is round
nor dingsters die at break of dong
and common’s rare and millstones float
—long enough and just so long
tomorrow will not be too late
worms are the words but joy’s the voice
down shall go which and up come who
breasts will be breasts thighs will be thighs
deeds cannot dream what dreams can do
—time is a tree(this life one leaf)
but love is the sky and i am for you
just so long and long enough
what if a much of a which of a wind
gives the truth to summer’s lie;
bloodies with dizzying leaves the sun
and yanks immortal stars awry?
Blow king to beggar and queen to seem
(blow friend to fiend:blow space to time)
—when skies are hanged and oceans drowned,
the single secret will still be man
what if a keen of a lean wind flays
screaming hills with sleet and snow:
strangles valleys by ropes of thing
and stifles forests in white ago?
Blow hope to terror;blow seeing to blind
(blow pity to envy and soul to mind)
—whose hearts are mountains,roots are trees,
it’s they shall cry hello to the spring
what if a dawn of a doom of a dream
bites this universe in two,
peels forever out of his grave
and sprinkles nowhere with me and you?
Blow soon to never and never to twice
(blow life to isn’t:blow death to was)
—all nothing’s only our hugest home;
the most who die,the more we live
when faces called flowers float out of the ground
and breathing is wishing and wishing is having—
but keeping is downward and doubting and never
—it’s april(yes,april;my darling)it’s spring!
yes the pretty birds frolic as spry as can fly
yes the little fish gambol as glad as can be
(yes the mountains are dancing together)
when every leaf opens without any sound
and wishing is having and having is giving—
but keeping is doting and nothing and nonsense
—alive;we’re alive,dear:it’s(kiss me now)spring!
now the pretty birds hover so she and so he
now the little fish quiver so you and so i
(now the mountains are dancing,the mountains)
when more than was lost has been found has been found
and having is giving and giving is living—
but keeping is darkness and winter and cringing
—it’s spring(all our night becomes day)o,it’s spring!
all the pretty birds dive to the heart of the sky
all the little fish climb through the mind of the sea
(all the mountains are dancing;are dancing)