my father moved through dooms of love
through sames of am through haves of give,
singing each morning out of each night
my father moved through depths of height
this motionless forgetful where
turned at his glance to shining here;
that if(so timid air is firm)
under his eyes would stir and squirm
newly as from unburied which
floats the first who,his april touch
drove sleeping selves to swarm their fates
woke dreamers to their ghostly roots
and should some why completely weep
my father’s fingers brought her sleep:
vainly no smallest voice might cry
for he could feel the mountains grow.
Lifting the valleys of the sea
my father moved through griefs of joy;
praising a forehead called the moon
singing desire into begin
joy was his song and joy so pure
a heart of star by him could steer
and pure so now and now so yes
the wrists of twilight would rejoice
keen as midsummer’s keen beyond
conceiving mind of sun will stand,
so strictly(over utmost him
so hugely) stood my father’s dream
his flesh was flesh his blood was blood:
no hungry man but wished him food;
no cripple wouldn’t creep one mile
uphill to only see him smile.
Scorning the Pomp of must and shall
my father moved through dooms of feel;
his anger was as right as rain
his pity was as green as grain
septembering arms of year extend
yes humbly wealth to foe and friend
than he to foolish and to wise
offered immeasurable is
proudly and(by octobering flame
beckoned)as earth will downward climb,
so naked for immortal work
his shoulders marched against the dark
his sorrow was as true as bread:
no liar looked him in the head;
if every friend became his foe
he’d laugh and build a world with snow.
My father moved through theys of we,
singing each new leaf out of each tree
(and every child was sure that spring
danced when she heard my father sing)
then let men kill which cannot share,
let blood and flesh be mud and mire,
scheming imagine,passion willed,
freedom a drug that’s bought and sold
giving to steal and cruel kind,
a heart to fear,to doubt a mind,
to differ a disease of same,
conform the pinnacle of am
though dull were all we taste as bright,
bitter all utterly things sweet,
maggoty minus and dumb death
all we inherit,all bequeath
and nothing quite so least as truth
–i say though hate were why men breathe–
because my Father lived his soul
love is the whole and more than all
ee cummings
"my father moved through dooms of love" was published as poem number 34 in 50 Poems (1940). E. E. Cummings'
father was killed when a train hit his automobile in 1926. See also
if there are any heavens my mother will(all by herself)have,
a very different and straightforward poem for his parents.
This is a poem of paradoxes, perhaps hiding some ambivalence. But never mind, we don't have to understand. Relax, and
let the poem understand you.
E. E. Cummings' (1894 - 1962) writing and approach
represented a new departure in poetry. He first flourished in the intellectually innovative and daring world of the
1920s. His work has never been fully appreciated by critics, but has an avid following among both connoisseurs and
"ordinary" folk, because his poems touch people directly, especially young people.
The modern era was born in the 1920s, out of the ruins
and desolation of World War I. The war smashed more than cities and people. It smashed Victorian conventions and class
distinctions. Suddenly, people were not afraid to speak and write about sex as something enjoyable and beautiful. This
was the era of James Joyce's Ulysses and Lawrence's Lady Chatterley's Lover, but also, especially in America, the era of
Scott Fitzgerald's "Tender is the Night." A time of daring and romance in literature.
His poetry is informed by his unique philosophy of life and
art. Cummings would laugh at most of the pedantic and trite dissections of his work by "objective" critics. Cummings had
nothing against science and logic, but he didn't think it applied to feelings. He was intensely against regimentation
and conventional thinking. His rebellion and unconventionality were symbolized superficially by his refusal to use capital
letters in his poems, but they went far beyond that.
Typography and layout of the poem were often very
important to Cummings, who was also an artist. Please note that we will not always be able to be faithful to the
original typography, because of limitations of the medium. Like some other modern poets, ee cummings' often
conveyed images and feelings by indirect allusions that would make readers see the images and feel the feelings
he was feeling, though he also made skilful use of poetic conventions. He also had the gift of making the English
language do unexpected and wondrous things, a gift that has made great poetry since the time of Shakespeare and
before.
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