Of Poetry, Ballads, and Saps

Here I sit, taken completely off guard, feeling much too far from the one I love. Like a Sap.


I should not have played the sweet ballad at the same time I analyzed that poem…

I’ve heard Change by the Kopecky Family Band before. Live in concert. Yet all at once, this song soaks in how beautiful and powerful love is. Of course, I waited until I was studying “somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond” by e.e. cummings for a test, a poem of which I have already read. This time, everything just soaked in.

If you’ve never read “somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond” it’s about love and vulnerability. It seems as though the three main things opening and closing repeatedly: flower petals, and the narrator himself. Hands and fingers gesture, touch, and enclose around others. Petals, like that of a rose open and close skillfully and thoughtfully with their surroundings. The narrator also opens and closes at the look, gesture, and voice of the one he loves. Each of these move slowly, cautiously, and represent how fragile and beautiful love is.

Yes, I did copy/paste that directly from my paper. The point is, there is no way I could have come up with that answer listening to any other song. Now, I’m feeling entirely too poetic, and entirely too lonely. I wish I wasn’t so far from my favorite guy. But because I am, I’ll just have to keep replaying this song and reading this poem like a sap.

somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond
  by E. E. Cummings
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 skilfully, mysteriously) her first rose
or if your wish be to close me, iand
my life will shut very beautifully ,suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere decending;
nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing
(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands

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