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Poet: e.e. cummings (e.e. cummings Art)
Poem: i go to this window
Comment 1 of 1, added on March 19th, 2005 at 3:27 PM.
I love that cummings' poetry can be read simply for a feeling.
I am sure that a thousand different readings of this poem could be presented; a thousand interpretations of the "you" and the "her" and the "me." cummings could be mourning a lover lost (just at the setting of the metaphorical "sun" on the relationship) to the "you, silently who are," a lover who he "smile[s] with knowing," who in her "largest final air" has hurled all his dreams downward.
Perhaps he is reveling in a current love, enjoying pondering her clingy quality in the soft twilight.
The others spoken of in the poem could just as easily be friends--friends more successful, friends more beautiful, friends who have left him in the cold.
But I enjoy simply reading the poem for its overall feeling. Many a time have I stared out a window as the sun has just set, dreaming about all that has been, all that may be, and all that will never be. There's something sort of magical about that time when the sun is only just beyond the horizon--its warmth is still close enough to feel in the air, yet you know that beyond lies hours of the mystical darkness of night, penetrated only by the "new moon, thinner than a hair."
I love cummings' poetry.
Elizabeth
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Comments
I love that cummings' poetry can be read simply for a feeling.
I am sure that a thousand different readings of this poem could be presented; a thousand interpretations of the "you" and the "her" and the "me." cummings could be mourning a lover lost (just at the setting of the metaphorical "sun" on the relationship) to the "you, silently who are," a lover who he "smile[s] with knowing," who in her "largest final air" has hurled all his dreams downward.
Perhaps he is reveling in a current love, enjoying pondering her clingy quality in the soft twilight.
The others spoken of in the poem could just as easily be friends--friends more successful, friends more beautiful, friends who have left him in the cold.
But I enjoy simply reading the poem for its overall feeling. Many a time have I stared out a window as the sun has just set, dreaming about all that has been, all that may be, and all that will never be. There's something sort of magical about that time when the sun is only just beyond the horizon--its warmth is still close enough to feel in the air, yet you know that beyond lies hours of the mystical darkness of night, penetrated only by the "new moon, thinner than a hair."
I love cummings' poetry.
Elizabeth