e e cummings
in more than memoriam
by Bertil Falk
Say, is there anyone more overlooked
than e e in the shadow of his fame?
How cruelly reduced into his name
are all his fancy poems — power-hooked.
All that, with it & mayhap under-crooked
however trees aflame —
a certain what don’t nights
(or kiss a dame)
the stars & fair how if shall
My God, thus overshadowing himself,
he trembles like a leaf in autumn’s brain.
“Rebel without a cause,” as Newsweek put it.
But therapists will use him as a tool
where poetry still dates psychiatry.
“Time for analysis. Lie down, Sir Death.”
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