anyone

anyone lived in a pretty how town 

(with up so floating many bells down)
spring summer autumn winter
he sang his didn't he danced his did

Women and men(both little and small)
cared for anyone not at all
they sowed their isn't they reaped their same
sun moon stars rain

children guessed(but only a few
and down they forgot as up they grew
autumn winter spring summer)
that noone loved him more by more 

when by now and tree by leaf 
she laughed his joy she cried his grief 
bird by snow and stir by still 
anyone's any was all to her 

someones married their everyones
laughed their cryings and did their dance
(sleep wake hope and then)they
said their nevers they slept their dream

stars rain sun moon
(and only the snow can begin to explain
how children are apt to forget to remember
with up so floating many bells down)

one day anyone died i guess
(and noone stooped to kiss his face)
busy folk buried them side by side 
little by little and was by was

all by all and deep by deep
and more by more they dream their sleep
noone and anyone earth by april
wish by spirit and if by yes.

Women and men(both dong and ding)
summer autumn winter spring
reaped their sowing and went their came
sun moon stars rain

-ee cummings


The first time I came across ee cummings was in the 10th grade.

It was in my English class at Hillcrest High School. I always finished my assignments early, so I would read the class textbook to kill time. It was full of short stories and poetry, written by all sorts of American authors.

I stumbled across “anyone lived in a pretty how town” quite by accident.

I read it and I thought it was so funny and weird that I took the textbook home with me that night to read it again in my free time. What a strange man ee cummings must have been to write such a nonsensical poem, to use indefinite pronouns to such an excessive extent. I read it again and shook my head, in the same way that many people shake their head at modern art.

I came across ee cummings for the second time in my junior year of high school. I reread “anyone lived in a pretty how town” and when I closed my eyes, for a moment, I could see the fleeting outlines of a town, a person, fleeting forms in a fog that seemed so familiar, so foreign. It fascinated me, and I would read through the poem at least once every time we would use our textbooks that trimester.

My senior year, once again, “anyone lived in a pretty how town,” entered my life. This time around though, I actively sought it out. And I would read it again and again, unable to understand my fascination with this poem, knowing only that the words had wrapped me around their finger and I possessed no desire to resist them.

It is now one of my most favorite poems, and when I read it, I see something beautiful. All the jagged edges and pieces have come together and I see a story that speaks to me like not many do. It’s brilliant. It’s multifaceted. It’s poignant. It’s poetry at its finest.

I hate it when people tell me how or why I should appreciate certain poetry, so I'll spare you all that. Some things are beautiful just because they exist. I could try and try to explain why and perhaps succeed, but somehow words are so limiting, when you're trying to write about other beautiful words. For now, I appreciate it best the way it is. The way it just sits there and is and doesn't try to be anything more than what it is. The way it means what it does for me [and just me], the way it can mean what it does for you [and just you].