as freedom is a breakfastfood

by e. e. cummings

E.E. Cummings dressed in his First World War military

uniform. WWI was far more psychologically damaging

than the Second World War or, arguably, any other war since

because it was fought in packed trenches with little to no territorial

gains or losses as a result of the introduction of machine guns

and the blatant, constant use of chemical weapons, specifically

mustard gas. Near the end of the war, roaring, mammoth-like

tanks appeared on the battlefields, steamrolling barbwire

and plowing over trenches.  Even though the weaponry
mounted on the original tanks wasn't very effective,
the psychological effect upon morale was significant
in virtue of the loud rumble of their engines, their
seeming disregard for infantry fire, not to mention their
sheer size and the fact that most had never seen one before.
With enemy infantry charging behind the tanks, shielded,
the ensuing disarray was often enough to lead to an onslaught.
The nickname The War to End All Wars owes its existence
to the inhumane gruesomeness of the conflict.  In the end,
however, WWI wasn't won via territorial gains, but rather
by a flanking strategy that successfully cut-off the supply lines
pivotal to the survival of frontline troops of Germany and
the Austria-Hungary Empire.  Edward Estlin Cummings'
palpable zest and love of life is the result of having experienced
one of the most terrifying chapters in human history.  For more
information on the Era and its impact on Cumming's poetry,
read "since feeling is first" and the accompanying essay.

as freedom is a breakfastfood
or truth can live with right and wrong
or molehills are from mountains made
—long enough and just so long
will being pay the rent of seem
and genius please the talentgang
and water most encourage flame

as hatracks into peachtrees grow
or hopes dance best on bald men’s hair
and every finger is a toe
and any courage is a fear
—long enough and just so long
will the impure think all things pure
and hornets wail by children stung

or as the seeing are the blind
and robins never welcome spring
nor flatfolk prove their world is round
nor dingsters die at break of dong
and common’s rare and millstones float
—long enough and just so long
tomorrow will not be too late

worms are the words but joy’s the voice
down shall go which and up come who
breasts will be breasts thighs will be thighs
deeds cannot dream what dreams can do
—time is a tree(this life one leaf)
but love is the sky and i am for you
just so long and long enough





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For a review of the background to the life, poetic style, and historical context that shaped E. E. Cummings' exceptional body of work, please read the brief essay immediately after the following poem—

•  "since feeling is first"

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You may also enjoy these other poems by Edward Estlin Cummings:

• "now does our world descend"

• "if you like my poems"

• "love is more thicker than forget"

Genius, by Mark Twain

Genius, like gold and precious stones,
is chiefly prized because of its rarity.

Geniuses are people who dash of weird, wild,
incomprehensible poems with astonishing facility,
and get booming drunk and sleep in the gutter.

Genius elevates its possessor to ineffable spheres
far above the vulgar world and fills his soul
with regal contempt for the gross and sordid things of earth.

It is probably on account of this
that people who have genius
do not pay their board, as a general thing.

Geniuses are very singular.
If you see a young man who has frowsy hair
and distraught look, and affects eccentricity in dress,
you may set him down for a genius.

If he sings about the degeneracy of a world
which courts vulgar opulence
and neglects brains,
he is undoubtedly a genius.

If he is too proud to accept assistance,
and spurns it with a lordly air
at the very same time
that he knows he can't make a living to save his life,
he is most certainly a genius.

If he hangs on and sticks to poetry,
notwithstanding sawing wood comes handier to him,
he is a true genius.

If he throws away every opportunity in life
and crushes the affection and the patience of his friends
and then protests in sickly rhymes of his hard lot,
and finally persists,
in spite of the sound advice of persons who have got sense
but not any genius,
persists in going up some infamous back alley
dying in rags and dirt,
he is beyond all question a genius.

But above all things,
to deftly throw the incoherent ravings of insanity into verse
and then rush off and get booming drunk,
is the surest of all the different signs
of genius.

The road not taken, by Robert Frost

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim
Because it was grassy and wanted wear,
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I,
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.