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Best Famous David Berman Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous David Berman poems. This is a select list of the best famous David Berman poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous David Berman poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of David Berman poems.

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Written by David Berman | |

The Moon

 A web of sewer, pipe, and wire connects each house to the others.
In 206 a dog sleeps by the stove where a small gas leak causes him to have visions; visions that are rooted in nothing but gas.
Next door, a man who has decided to buy a car part by part excitedly unpacks a wheel and an ashtray.
He arranges them every which way.
It’s really beginning to take shape.
Out the garage window he sees a group of ugly children enter the forest.
Their mouths look like coin slots.
A neighbor plays keyboards in a local cover band.
Preparing for an engagement at the high school prom, they pack their equipment in silence.
Last night they played the Police Academy Ball and all the officers slow-danced with target range silhouettes.
This year the theme for the prom is the Tetragrammaton.
A yellow Corsair sails through the disco parking lot and swaying palms presage the lot of young libertines.
Inside the car a young lady wears a corsage of bullet-sized rodents.
Her date, the handsome cornerback, stretches his talons over the molded steering wheel.
They park and walk into the lush starlit gardens behind the disco just as the band is striking up.
Their keen eyes and ears twitch.
The other couples look beautiful tonight.
They stroll around listening to the brilliant conversation.
The passionate speeches.
Clouds drift across the silverware.
There is red larkspur, blue gum, and ivy.
A boy kneels before his date.
And the moon, I forgot to mention the moon.


Written by David Berman | |

Snow

 Walking through a field with my little brother Seth

I pointed to a place where kids had made angels in the snow.
For some reason, I told him that a troop of angels had been shot and dissolved when they hit the ground.
He asked who had shot them and I said a farmer.
Then we were on the roof of the lake.
The ice looked like a photograph of water.
Why he asked.
Why did he shoot them.
I didn't know where I was going with this.
They were on his property, I said.
When it's snowing, the outdoors seem like a room.
Today I traded hellos with my neighbor.
Our voices hung close in the new acoustics.
A room with the walls blasted to shreds and falling.
We returned to our shoveling, working side by side in silence.
But why were they on his property, he asked.


Written by David Berman | |

Governors On Sominex

 It had been four days of no weather
as if nature had conceded its genius to the indoors.
They'd closed down the Bureau of Sad Endings and my wife sat on the couch and read the paper out loud.
The evening edition carried the magic death of a child backlit by a construction site sunrise on its front page.
I kept my back to her and fingered the items on the mantle.
Souvenirs only reminded you of buying them.
* * * The moon hung solid over the boarded-up Hobby Shop.
P.
K.
was in the precinct house, using his one phone call to dedicate a song to Tammy, for she was the light by which he traveled into this and that And out in the city, out in the wide readership, his younger brother was kicking an ice bucket in the woods behind the Marriott, his younger brother who was missing that part of the brain that allows you to make out with your pillow.
Poor kid.
It was the light in things that made them last.
* * * Tammy called her caseworker from a closed gas station to relay ideas unaligned with the world we loved.
The tall grass bent in the wind like tachometer needles and he told her to hang in there, slowly repeating the number of the Job Info Line.
She hung up and glared at the Killbuck Sweet Shoppe.
The words that had been running through her head, "employees must wash hands before returning to work," kept repeating and the sky looked dead.
* * * Hedges formed the long limousine a Tampa sky could die behind.
A sailor stood on the wharf with a clipper ship reflected on the skin of the bell pepper he held.
He'd had mouthwash at the inn and could still feel the ice blue carbon pinwheels spinning in his mouth.
There were no new ways to understand the world, only new days to set our understandings against.
Through the lanes came virgins in tennis shoes, their hair shining like videotape, singing us into a kind of sleep we hadn't tried yet.
Each page was a new chance to understand the last.
And somehow the sea was always there to make you feel stupid.


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Written by David Berman | |

Imagining Defeat

 She woke me up at dawn,
her suitcase like a little brown dog at her heels.
I sat up and looked out the window at the snow falling in the stand of blackjack trees.
A bus ticket in her hand.
Then she brought something black up to her mouth, a plum I thought, but it was an asthma inhaler.
I reached under the bed for my menthols and she asked if I ever thought of cancer.
Yes, I said, but always as a tree way up ahead in the distance where it doesn't matter And I suppose a dead soul must look back at that tree, so far behind his wagon where it also doesn't matter.
except as a memory of rest or water.
Though to believe any of that, I thought, you have to accept the premise that she woke me up at all.


Written by David Berman | |

The Charm Of 5:30

 It's too nice a day to read a novel set in England.
We're within inches of the perfect distance from the sun, the sky is blueberries and cream, and the wind is as warm as air from a tire.
Even the headstones in the graveyard Seem to stand up and say "Hello! My name is.
.
.
" It's enough to be sitting here on my porch, thinking about Kermit Roosevelt, following the course of an ant, or walking out into the yard with a cordless phone to find out she is going to be there tonight On a day like today, what looks like bad news in the distance turns out to be something on my contact, carports and white courtesy phones are spontaneously reappreciated and random "okay"s ring through the backyards.
This morning I discovered the red tints in cola when I held a glass of it up to the light and found an expensive flashlight in the pocket of a winter coat I was packing away for summer.
It all reminds me of that moment when you take off your sunglasses after a long drive and realize it's earlier and lighter out than you had accounted for.
You know what I'm talking about, and that's the kind of fellowship that's taking place in town, out in the public spaces.
You won't overhear anyone using the words "dramaturgy" or "state inspection today.
We're too busy getting along.
It occurs to me that the laws are in the regions and the regions are in the laws, and it feels good to say this, something that I'm almost sure is true, outside under the sun.
Then to say it again, around friends, in the resonant voice of a nineteenth-century senator, just for a lark.
There's a shy looking fellow on the courthouse steps, holding up a placard that says "But, I kinda liked Reagan.
" His head turns slowly as a beautiful girl walks by, holding a refrigerated bottle up against her flushed cheek.
She smiles at me and I allow myself to imagine her walking into town to buy lotion at a brick pharmacy.
When she gets home she'll apply it with great lingering care before moving into her parlor to play 78 records and drink gin-and-tonics beside her homemade altar to James Madison.
In a town of this size, it's certainly possible that I'll be invited over one night.
In fact I'll bet you something.
Somewhere in the future I am remembering today.
I'll bet you I'm remembering how I walked into the park at five thirty, my favorite time of day, and how I found two cold pitchers of just poured beer, sitting there on the bench.
I am remembering how my friend Chip showed up with a catcher's mask hanging from his belt and how I said great to see you, sit down, have a beer, how are you, and how he turned to me with the sunset reflecting off his contacts and said, wonderful, how are you.