Tired of Things That Break

I would like to share two of my favorite poems of late.

e.e. cummings

The first one is this work by Nick Laird which is part of Zadie Smith's (his wife) book On Beauty.  I adore this book and frankly I must say that this poem is an essential hook in this incredible novel.  Anyway, in the novel the poem was supposedly written by this teacher but in reality, of course, this is actually a piece by Nick Laird.

Here goes:

ON BEAUTY
by Nick Laird

No, we could not itemize the list
of sins they can't forgive us
The beautiful don't lack the wound
It is always beginning to snow.

Of sins they can't forgive us
speech is beautifully useless.
It is always beginning to snow.
The beautiful know this.

Speech is beautifully useless.
They are the damned.
The beautiful know this.
They stand around unnatural as a statuary.

They are the damned.
and so their sadness is perfect,
delicate as an egg placed in your palm.
Hard, it is decorated with their face.

and so their sadness is perfect.
The beautiful don't lack the wound.
Hard, it is decorated with their face.
No, we could not itemize the list.

I am not an expert on poetry and I don't think I am in any position to analyze it from an academic standpoint.  Anyhow, as you read the poem there is evidently a pattern of repetition which is actually called a pantoum (although this one is considered as a broken pantoum). 


After reading this poem a few years ago (I probably got the book sometime in 2008 or 2009) it felt like I was slapped in the face.  I am a sucker for patterns, you see, and at the back of my emotionally cerebral mind I managed to translate how these verses were in fact personally symbolic.  And what I love about this is that the repetition is broken which, in my personal opinion, the way certain patterns should be.

And speaking of patterns, this lovely ee cummings poem is a great answer from the Great Beyond.  I've always loved the work of this poet.

You are tired,
(I think)
Of the always puzzle of living and doing;
And so am I.

Come with me, then,
And we'll leave it far and far away—
(Only you and I, understand!)

You have played,
(I think)
And broke the toys you were fondest of,
And are a little tired now;
Tired of things that break, and—
Just tired.
So am I.

But I come with a dream in my eyes tonight,
And knock with a rose at the hopeless gate of your heart—
Open to me!
For I will show you the places Nobody knows,
And, if you like,
The perfect places of Sleep.

Ah, come with me!
I'll blow you that wonderful bubble, the moon,
That floats forever and a day;
I'll sing you the jacinth song
Of the probable stars;
I will attempt the unstartled steppes of dream,
Until I find the Only Flower,
Which shall keep (I think) your little heart
While the moon comes out of the sea.

- e.e. cummings

<3