Poem of the Day: E.E. Cummings

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 

dove 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 

less 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 sprin 

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

--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.)