Review: 100 Selected Poems

100 Selected Poems by E.E. Cummings
My rating: 3 of 5 stars



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I'll be honest, I barely understood around 40 out of the 100 poems which are listed in the book. In fact, it took me a while to figure out that, no, my version of the pdf was not corrupted, and yes, the poems are intentionally written in a broken, hard to decipher manner, sometimes, a single word broken apart into three lines, with a healthy sprinkling of (), which may or may not have been meant to read as companion to the main piece.


But when it hit, it hit hard, and hit clear. There were some favorites of course


> I had an uncle named Sol
> A man who had fallen among thieves
> Here’s a little mouse And what does he think about,
> I like my body, when it is with your Body
> If there are any heavens, my mother will (all by herself) have
> The greatest advantage of being alive




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The one that takes the care however is; #61. My father moved through dooms of love

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

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Even though, personally, I'm more of a Wordsworth & Keats kind of guy, one has to admire, the sheer freedom, and chaos evident in his lines. Using, words, breaking them, using lines, breaking them, using punctuations, parenthesis in particular to form some manner of dissociated resonance. But what do I know, just seems like a bunch of words from the alphabet soup all strewn about.