seekersofpeace: Bowie

March

here's to opening and upward,
to leaf and to sap
and to your(in my arms flowering
so new)
self whose eyes smell
of the sound of rain
and here's to silent
certainly mountains;and to
a disappearing poet of
always,snow
and to morning;and to morning's
beautiful friend
twilight(and a first dream
called ocean)and
let must or if be damned
with whomever's afraid
down with ought with because
with every brain
which thinks it thinks,nor
dares to feel(but up
with joy;and up with
laughing and drunkenness)
here's to one undiscoverable
guess
of whose mad skill each world
of blood is made
(whose fatal songs are moving
in the moon

e.e.cummings

seekersofpeace

Wednesday, November 12, 2008

Bowie

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