Random Flickr Blogging (5854)
the 112 birthday of e.e.cummings
therefore i present with this
picture
this poem of his
if i have made,my lady,intricate
imperfect various things chiefly which wrong
your eyes(frailer than most deep dreams are frail)
songs less firm than your body's whitest song
upon my mind-if i have failed to snare
the glance too shy-if through my singing slips
the very skillful strangeness of your smile
the keen primeval silence of your hair
-let the world say "his most wise music stole
nothing from death"-
you only will create
(who are so perfectly alive)my shame:
lady through whose profound and fragile lips
the sweet small clumsy feet of April came
into the ragged meadow of my soul.
5 Comments:
That's nice, Minstrel.
Bravo. Encore Encore!
That was beautiful. Lovely poem and lovely girl.
Beautiful.
Thanks, MB. I needed that.
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