Oh, rapturous joy! It’s seems to be e.e. cummings week.

For the past few days, lines from e.e. cummings poems i hardly knew i remembered have been bubbling up through me.

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 mornings; 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, not 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.

And I’ve been listening to Bjork’s beautiful musical version of cummings’ Sonnets/Unrealities (lyrics | preview in itunes).
Then today I received a postcard about a dramatic reading of his poetry in our (Greenwich Village, NYC) neighborhood on December 7th.