pity this busy monster

29 07 2012


‘pity this busy monster, manunkind’

pity this busy monster, manunkind,

not. Progress is a comfortable disease:
your victim (death and life safely beyond)

plays with the bigness of his littleness
--- electrons deify one razorblade
into a mountainrange; lenses extend
unwish through curving wherewhen till unwish
returns on its unself.
                          A world of made
is not a world of born --- pity poor flesh

and trees, poor stars and stones, but never this
fine specimen of hypermagical

ultraomnipotence. We doctors know

a hopeless case if --- listen: there's a hell
of a good universe next door; let's go

E. E. Cummings

How I managed to adore e.e cummings and own books of his and NOT know about this amazing poem is beyond me.  I think perhaps it is because at no other point in my development as a human being could these words had as much resonance as they do now. Now, the end of Saturn’s dizzy return… the 31 years of reality selection play. Now, the moment that feels like deeper awakening after every tumble into sleep.