my father moved through dooms of lovethrough sames of am through haves of give,singing each morning out of each nightmy father moved through depths of height
this motionless forgetful whereturned at his glance to shining here;that if (so timid air is firm)under his eyes would stir and squirm
newly as from unburied whichfloats the first who,his april touchdove sleeping selves to swarm their fateswoke dreamers to their ghostly roots
and should some why completely weepmy father's fingers brought her sleep:vainly no smallest voice might cryfor he could feel the mountains grow.
Lifting the valleys of the seamy father moved through griefs of joy;praising a forehead called the moonsinging desire into begin
joy was his song and joy so purea heart of star by him could steerand pure so now and now so yesthe wrists of twilight would rejoice
keen as midsummer's keen beyondconceiving mind of sun will stand,so strictly (over utmost himso 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 mileuphill to only see him smile.
Scorning the pomp of must and shallmy father moved through dooms of feel;his anger was as right as rainhis pity was as green as grain
septembering arms of year extendless humbly wealth to foe and friendthan he to foolish and to wiseoffered immeasurable is
proudly and(by octobering flamebeckoned) as earth will downward climb,so naked for immortal workhis shoulders marched against the dark
his sorrow was as true as bread:no liar looked him in the head;if every friend became his foehe'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 sprindanced 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 deathall we inherit,all bequeath
and nothing quite so least as truth--i say though hate were why men breathe--because my father lived his soullove is the whole and more than all--E.E. Cummings
I'm not, I fear, a Cummings fan. But many are, so this is for them. And for me it's one of the few Cummings poems that truly justify his typographic trickery and syntactical twists. They depict the struggle to articulate a deep and genuine feeling. (And no, he didn't insist on spelling his name with lowercase letters.)