"[somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond]"

Explore the power of love's vulnerability in EE Cummings' "[somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond]" and unveil new insights into this profound poetic journey. Learn more.

"[somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond]"
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We started this course with Cummings defining a poet as "somebody who feels, and who expresses his feelings through words."
Feeling is subtle. That place from where feeling arises must be subtler still, and so it's natural that the most practiced poets write poetry about this subtle *Spring.*
We call this type of poetry, "mystical verse." A mystical poem reads like a love poem—so much so that it’s often hard to tell if a poet’s gushing over a girl or God; a boy or Beyond.
In this lesson, you'll write from your own wellspring of love as you read another Cummings poem. You may write to someone in particular or to the Universal, or you might ebb and flow from *One* to the *Other*. There are five stanzas and five prompts. Don't feel pressured to use all of the prompts.
somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond any experience, your eyes have their silence: in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me, or which i cannot touch because they are too near
your slightest look easily will unclose me though i have closed myself as fingers, you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens (touching skillfully, mysteriously) her first rose
or if your wish be to close me, i and my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly, as when the heart of this flower imagines the snow carefully everywhere descending;
nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals the power of your intense fragility: whose texture compels me with the colour of its countries, rendering death and forever with each breathing -- nothing that we can see is as good as your power and fragility: whose multifaceted nature fascinates me with all its diversity, reminding me of both death and eternity
(i do not know what it is about you that closes and opens; only something in me understands the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses) nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands

Story From

E.E. Cummings Collection