all which isn't singing is mere talking
and all talking's talking to oneself
(whether that oneself be sought or seeking
master or disciple sheep or wolf)
gush to it as diety or devil
-toss in sobs and reasons threats and smiles
name it cruel fair or blessed evil-
it is you (ne i)nobody else
drive dumb mankind dizzy with haranguing
-you are deafened every mother's son-
all is merely talk which isn't singing
and all talking's to oneself alone
but the very song of(as mountains
feel and lovers)singing is silence
ee cummings
This comes from 73 Poems, a collection that Marion Morehouse put together after her husband died in 1962. It was one of my favorite poems when I was a teenaged phenomenologist. I am less one of those now, but still rather irritating in my choices of communicative style. To some people. And that's what really counts.
Perhaps due to having a bit of a background in classical music, I find myself concerned with the structure of things. So I like sonnets, and this is a fine example of one.
I still have my paperback copy of "73 Poems" that I got at a little bookstore on Broadway many years ago.
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