Every published poet has a first born child of the muse that is presented to the world, but not every fruit of the brow is heralded as the second coming.
All art is escapism in the noblest sense. First you get out of prison with your mind, and maybe soon, your body follows. ‘Cause why would you even consider staying behind bars? No one is safe.
Welcome to the Poetry Lounge. Here you can escape, for a moment, the banal echoes of ordinary life. Our special guest today is Edward Estlin Cummings (otherwise known as e.e.), born in Cambridge, Massachusetts on October 14, 1894. You could say that Edward was called to poetry, beginning his ...
I like him because he used his art as an inescapable way into the tunnels of the heart, where -- with closed eyes but open mouth -- he bravely captured his own darkness, and then brought it out into the ephemeral, mundane light for the world to touch: Here, here, don’t be afraid, it’s only flesh.