Das Archiv der Lyriknachrichten | Seit 2001 | News that stays news
Now, imagine approaching poetry as a teenager in 1971. The first poem you read in your English class’ textbook begins:
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
And the next one:
Buffalo Bill’s
defunct
who used to
ride a watersmooth-silver
stallion
and break onetwothreefourfive pigeonsjustlikethat
In a flash, the poems jolt you out of your dogmatic slumber.
The lines dance and writhe, alive with electricity and innovation, fueled by a fractured typography, by a short-fused syntax. New words burst onto the page like particles colliding in a physics experiment. The poem’s shape mimics what it says; it builds and breaks with an unpredictable spontaneity and delight, with abandon.
Congratulations. You have just been baptized into the poetic world of E. E. Cummings, and you’ll never steer clear of poetry again.
Instead, you’ll jump at the chance to take part in the making of each poem, to decode its cryptic message tangled in a spider’s web of type, to re-create the swoosh of letters sweeping down the page.
l(a le af fa ll s) one l iness
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(By Arlice Davenport, The Wichita Eagle)
Und fast genauso gings mir, fast zur gleichen Zeit. Nur war es bei mir kein Schulbuch, sondern ein verirrtes Exemplar der 73 poems. Und drei Gedichte springen in meine Anthologie. Ein Frühlings-, ein Amerika-, ein Herbstgedicht.
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