12.4.12 | By: Megan Langham

Jacinth Song

Do you know how it is when in the course of an ordinary day you stumble across a passage of a book or a lyric of a song or even a previously unheard platitude that seems to have been written for you? It is a strange sensation, as troubling as it is gratifying, to feel that someone has reached into your soul and pulled out a secret thing. But then you remember that it was a thought in their soul before it was in yours, and the quiet horror is replaced with a feeling of trembling kinship.

All of that is how I felt about this little poem by e.e. cummings -- not generally one of my favourite poets, but certainly a genius. And sometimes, as now, a genius who understands. It's only a bit of a thing, this poem, but perhaps you will feel about as I did. At any rate, I wanted to share it with everyone I know, because the possibility of understanding is always there.

you are tired

You are tired,
(I think)
Of the always puzzle of living and doing,
And so am I.

Come with me, then,
And we’ll leave it far and far away—
(Only you and I, understand!)

You have played,
(I think)
And broke the toys you were fondest of,
And are a little tired now;
Tired of things that break, and—
Just tired.
So am I.

But I come with a dream in my eyes tonight,
And knock with a rose at the hopeless gate of your heart.
Open to me!
For I will show you the places Nobody knows,
And, if you like,
The perfect places of Sleep.

Ah, come with me!
I’ll blow you that wonderful bubble, the moon,
That floats forever and a day;
I’ll sing you the jacinth song,
Or the probable stars,
I will attempt the unstartled steppes of dream,
Until I find the Only Flower,
Which shall keep (I think) your little heart
While the moon comes out of the sea.

e.e. cummings

3 missives:

Sparrow said...

You've given me shivers and happies all over.

It's a peaceful feeling, this poetry stuff, like finding little jewels hiding under a chocolate-colored rag carpet. I cannot say that I like all poetry. Much of it that floats around these days strikes me as rather choppy and presumptuous (a reason why I have never shared my own, for one cannot tell with one's own, you know).

But then there are these. It's like finding a friend in my own little glass world that I live in. And not being Quite So Alone.

(I didn't know that anyone else thought the moon was like a bubble.)

Joy said...

That's a a lovely piece of poetry, Megan!

Jenny Freitag said...

Huh! In general, I've never known E.E. Cummings to be someone whose poetry I liked; I never thought I would ever come across a poem of his that resonated with me. I see you have proved me wrong. Funny thing, poetry... It reminds me of Andrew Peterson's "The Far Country," in a way, and in another way reminds me of George MacDonald and G.K. Chesterton all rolled up into (a rather large) one. By all the improbable stars! (as Dammerung would say) wouldn't I like to hear the jacinth song, the hum of watered steel, or feel the lambs' ear beneath my feet in that funny, awkward, dangerous, dark world of dreams...

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