6.23.15

I'm staring at the backlog of poems in my inbox, knowing I need to read them (wanting to read them!) and still ignoring them. I wish I had something new to share with you, some exciting experience, but I don't get out much. Even if I did go over to the artists enclaves in the city, I also admit that it's really somewhat terrifying to break into a new circle, and I don't exactly have my finger on the pulse of art right now.

This is my father moved through dooms of love by e.e. cummings.


       34


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
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 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

Edward Estlin Cummings was known for his experimentation. I think many people are familiar with his play with form, as in [in just], and enjoy learning his work as a departure from some of his peers. I find it somewhat difficult to read his poems with the crazy formatting, but I do love that this poem plays with language while still retaining the semantic thread. Also, I rather relate to this work, and it's somewhat special to me for that reason. (Ach, du.) 

Among linguistically-minded friends, the argument of understanding vs. evolution of language comes up. Some believe there is no "wrong" (descriptive understanding) in languages because they continually evolve and change and that is totally normal, while others would like some formalization of semantics and form for communication and understandings' sake (prescriptive understanding). Something that I really like about this work is how it dabbles in both camps. We see forms that are totally different "Theys of we", which is strange in that it pluralizes they, and makes subgroups within pronouns. I really like this, though, because it feels as though there is a third person within the first person, and that makes it feel very isolated and lonely, much as I imagine the speaker of this eulogistic piece would feel.