e.e.cummings

At this time of year I enjoy the many light-hearted poems of e.e. cummings -- and then this morning I read the Molly and Me poem which ends with, ''it is always ourselves we find in the sea." After hearing the President speak last night, and knowing that as I hit this keyboard that more oil is gushing forth to pollute and destroy part of our precious earth, I find cumming's poem has a new meaning for me. A painful meaning now. Because this is not only about oil and our demands for it. I too expect the gas pump to work when I want a fill-up. But because our city planners and urban designers have created a sprawling mess of roads and now I have to drive miles for a loaf of bread, work, even survival. We are forced into a consumption of oil that we cannot escape. That entrapment is painful. And makes me angry. And what does this have to do with "poetry." Can my poetry ever begin to express this anger and pain? Can yours? Yes, in poem that rants and raves. Do I dare unleash that storm? Or, perhaps, I should sing an ode to the sea. Neruda, where are you when I need you.