"my father moved through dooms of love" by E E Cummings (read by Tom O'Bedlam)

Cummings wrote this poem after his father was killed when his car was hit by a train at a crossing in 1926. The picture is just an illustration for atmosphere, not connected with the incident or even from the right period in history. More info here:
tinyurl.com/2vdmhoc
It's hard to say why Cummings was so determined never to write any sentence, or clause even, that would parse. Perhaps it's the technical innovation that is the hallmark of genius.
To pick just one phrase, "dooms of love" is worth examining. It reminds me of a story from Buddhism. A father's only beloved son died of a fever. His grief is unbearable, so he asks the Oracle for help, but the Oracle replies, "It is true father, from what is loved comes hurt and misery, anguish and despair which come from what is loved".
The father cannot believe that this is true, so he asks many other people for their opinion, even the dice players in the marketplace, and they all agree in turn that what is loved brings joy and happiness. (The real point of the story is in the repetition of the father's tale of woe: at first we feel sympathy but later it grows tiresome. )
If we are fearful of any doom, then the most likely thing to trouble us is that misfortune might happen to the people that we love.
The picture of Cummings comes from this site:
www.mumdad-art.com/galpag3.html
The artist has contacted me lately, his name is John Bedford and his website is here:
www.jsbedford.com/
The last picture is Cummings' House in Cambridge, MA, listed on the National Register of Historic Places.
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

[@alexdomian5672]

Thank you very much

[@polymath7]

I'm glad you provide the name of the artist who painted that portrait. From the thumbnail I thought it was Chuck Close, but when I saw it on full screen I realized it was someone unknown to me.
And, of course an excellent reading as absolutely always.
(The closest you've ever come to stumbling in my estimation is in you reading of "Once more unto the breech..." from Henry V).

[@FloresDeLaPrimavera]

Thank you!

[@clkallay]

Today is the anniversary of his death. A tribute to his father; his self.

[@Jeremyramone]

@liz1060 i like your comment, nicely worded, cheers from san diego