What does this poem mean?

Question

ee cummings love is a place.
Love is a place
& through this place of
love move
(with brightness of peace)
all places

yes is a world
& in this world of
yes live
(skillfully curled)
all worlds



I don't get it. how would you paraphrase it? or analyze it?

Answer 1

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I think this poem is about how love is in one's life. It's in one's heart no matter what kind of world you live in. Hope I helped! :)

Answer 2

Do you have to use this particular ee cummings poem? If not, I would choose another, he had better ones about love. Don't let his tricky typographical idiosyncracies get in the way, he does that with everthing. I think this poem is about how love can open a person to the world (or all worlds) and how all is saturated with love. It's pretty simple to me. Not essay worthy or anything. But if you want to anyalyse it, try starting by making a list of words you feel after or as you read the poem, then expand on those words you wrote down, which will hopefully lead to bigger and better ideas. You can also analyse how ee cummings uses editing in the structure of his poetry, why does he do it? Ask yourself these questions. There is really no "right" answer, it's all speculation. Also if your interested, this is one of my favorites by ee cummings:
somewhere i have never travelled

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, i and
my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the colour of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands

-- e. e. cummings