somewhere i have never travelled,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 will easily 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

I love this poem by e e Cummings



Although its an acquired liking for Cummings, i always treasured personalized notes and writings as long as i remember.
Friends have made a remarkable contributions and made me fall for words.
I remember telling one of my classmates who use to write
Haiku very well that i would like to get his work published one day.
I have saved innumerable scribbles and writings and like going back to them once in a while. I find them more precious than any gifts i every possessed.
Once i got this bizarre work of art with 'Remember its the words' written and signed.
I got the lyrics of 'Starry Starry Nights' by Don Maclean written on the back of my
note book in red ink and with Vincent's name replaced with mine! : )

A hand written note makes my day!