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Best Famous John Berryman Poems

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

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Written by John Berryman |

Dream Song 58: Industrious affable having brain on fire

 Industrious, affable, having brain on fire,
Henry perplexed himself; others gave up;
good girls gave in;
geography was hard on friendship, Sire;
marriages lashed & languished, anguished; dearth of group
and what else had been;

the splendour & the lose grew all the same,
His heart stiffened, and he failed to smile, catching (enfit) on.
The law: we must, owing to chiefly shame lacing our pride, down what we did.
A mile, a mile to Avalon.
Stuffy & lazy, shaky, making roar overseas presses, he quit wondering: the mystery is full.
Sire, damp me down.
Me feudal O, me yore (male Muse) serf, if anyfing; which rank I pull.

Written by John Berryman |

Dream Song 79: Op. posth. no. 2

 Whence flew the litter whereon he was laid?
Of what heroic stuff was warlock Henry made?
and questions of that sort
perplexed the bulging cosmos, O in short
was sandalwood in good supply when he
flared out of history

& the obituary in The New York Times
into the world of generosity
creating the air where are
& can be, only, heroes? Statues & rhymes
signal his fiery Passage, a mountainous sea,
the occlusion of a star:

anything afterward, of a high lament,
let too his giant faults appear, as sent
together with his virtues down
and let this day be his, throughout the town,
region & cosmos, lest he freeze our blood
with terrible returns.

Written by John Berryman |

Dream Song 133: As he grew famousâ€'ah but what is fame?

 As he grew famous—ah, but what is fame?—
he lost his old obsession with his name,
things seemed to matter less,
including the fame—a television team came
from another country to make a film of him
which did not him distress:

he enjoyed the hard work & he was good at that,
so they all said—the charming Englishman 
among the camera & the lights
mathematically wandered in his pub & livingroom
doing their duty, as too he did it,
but where are the delights

of long-for fame, unless fame makes him feel easy?
I am cold & weary, said Henry, fame makes me feel lazy,
yet i must do my best.
It doesn't matter, truly.
It doesn't matter truly.
It seems to be solely a matter of continuing Henry voicing & obsessed.

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Written by John Berryman |

Dream Song 40: Im scared a lonely. Never see my son

 I'm scared a lonely.
Never see my son, easy be not to see anyone, combers out to sea know they're goin somewhere but not me.
Got a little poison, got a little gun, I'm scared a lonely.
I'm scared a only one thing, which is me, from othering I don't take nothin, see, for any hound dog's sake.
But this is where I livin, where I rake my leaves and cop my promise, this' where we cry oursel's awake.
Wishin was dyin but I gotta make it all this way to that bed on these feet where peoples said to meet.
Maybe but even if I see my son forever never, get back on the take, free, black & forty-one.

Written by John Berryman |

Dream Song 3: A Stimulant for an Old Beast

 Acacia, burnt myrrh, velvet, pricky stings.
—I'm not so young but not so very old, said screwed-up lovely 23.
A final sense of being right out in the cold, unkissed.
(—My psychiatrist can lick your psychiatrist.
) Women get under things.
All these old criminals sooner or later have had it.
I've been reading old journals.
Gottwald & Co.
, out of business now.
Thick chests quit.
Double agent, Joe.
She holds her breath like a seal and is whiter & smoother.
Rilke was a jerk.
I admit his griefs & music & titled spelled all-disappointed ladies.
A threshold worse than the circles where the vile settle & lurk, Rilke's.
As I said,—

Written by John Berryman |

Dream Song 31: Henry Hankovitch con guítar

 Henry Hankovitch, con guítar,
did a short Zen pray,
on his tatami in a relaxed lotos
fixin his mind on nuffin, rose-blue breasts,
and gave his parnel one French kiss;
enslaving himself he withdrew from his blue

Florentine leather case an Egyptian black
& flickt a zippo.
Henry & Phoebe happy as cockroaches in the world-kitchen woofed, with all away.
The International flame, like despair, rose or like the foolish Paks or Sudanese Henry Hankovitch, con guítar, did a praying mantis pray who even more obviously than the increasingly fanatical Americans cannot govern themselves.
Swedes don't exist, Scandanavians in general do not exist, take it from there.

Written by John Berryman |

Dream Song 119: Fresh-shaven past months and a picture in New York

 Fresh-shaven, past months & a picture in New York
of Beard Two, I did have Three took off.
Shadow & act, shadow & act, Better get white or you' get whacked, or keep so-called black & raise new hell.
I've had enough of this dying.
You've done me a dozen goodnesses; get well.
Fight again for our own.
Henry felt baffled, in the middle of the thing.
He spent his whole time in Ireland on the Book of Kells, the jackass, made of bone.
No tremor, no perspire: Heaven is here now, in Minneapolis.
It's easier to vomit than it was, beardless.
There's always the cruelty of scholarship.
I once was a slip.

Written by John Berryman |

Dream Song 125: Bards freezing naked up to the neck in water

 Bards freezing, naked, up to the neck in water,
wholly in dark, time limited, different from
initiations now:
the class in writing, clothed & dry & light,
unlimited time, till Poetry takes some,
nobody reads them though,

no trumpets, no solemn instauration, no change;
no commissions, ladies high in soulful praise
(pal) none,
costumes as usual, turtleneck sweaters, loafers,
in & among the busy Many who brays
art is if anything fun.
I say the subject was given as of old, prescribed the technical treatment, tests really tests were set by the masters & graded.
I say the paralyzed fear lest one's not one is back with us forever, worsts & bests spring for the public, faded.

Written by John Berryman |

Dream Song 10: There were strange gatherings. A vote would come

 There were strange gatherings.
A vote would come that would be no vote.
There would come a rope.
There would come a rope.
Men have their hats down.
"Dancing in the Dark" will see him up, car-radio-wise.
So many, some won't find a rut to park.
It is in the occasions, that—not the fathomless heart— the thinky death consists; his chest is pinched.
The enemy are sick, and so is us of.
Often, to rising trysts, like this one, drove he out and gasps of love, after all, had got him ready.
However things hurt, men hurt worse.
He's stark to be jerked onward? Yes.
In the headlights he got' keep him steady, leak not, look out over.
This' hard work, boss, wait' for The Word.

Written by John Berryman |

Dream Song 111: I miss him. When I get back to camp

 I miss him.
When I get back to camp I'll dig him up.
Well, he can prop & watch, can't he, pink or blue, and I will talk to him.
I miss him.
Slams, grand or any, aren't for the tundra much.
One face-card will do.
It's marvellous how four sit down—beyond my thought how many tables sometimes are in forgotten clubs across & down the world.
Your fever conned us, pal.
Will it work out, my solitaire? The blubber's safe in the tubs, the dogs are still, & all's well .
nine long times I loosed & buried.
Then I shot him dead.
I don't remember why.
The Captain of the supply ship, playing for dimes, thinks I killed him.
The black cards are red and where's the others? I—

Written by John Berryman |

Dream Song 94: Ill lay he long upon this last return

 Ill lay he long, upon this last return,
The doctors put everything in the hospital into reluctant Henry and the nurses took it out & put it back, smiling like fiends, with their eternal 'we.
' Henry did a slow burn, collapsing his dialogue to their white ears & shiny on the flanges.
Sanka he drank until his memories blurred & Valerie was coming, lower he sank and lovely.
Teddy on his handlebars perched, her.
One word he heard insistent his broad shortcomings, then lay still.
That middle-sized wild man was ill.
A hospital is where it all has a use, so is a makar.
So is substantial God, tuning in from abroad.

Written by John Berryman |

Dream Song 17: Muttered Henry:â€'Lord of matter thus

 Muttered Henry:—Lord of matter, thus:
upon some more unquiet spirit knock,
my madnesses have cease.
All the quarter astonishes a lonely out & back.
They set their clocks by Henry House, the steadiest man on the block.
And Lucifer:—I smell you for my own, by smug.
—What have I tossed you but the least (tho' hard); fit for your ears.
Your servant, bored with horror, sat alone with busy teeth while his dislike increased unto himself, in tears.
And he:—O promising despair, in solitude— —End there.
Your avenues are dying: leave me: I dove under the oaken arms of Brother Martin, St Simeon the Lesser Theologian, Bodhidharma, and Baal Shem Tov.

Written by John Berryman |

Dream Song 114: Henry in trouble whirped out lonely whines

 Henry in trouble whirped out lonely whines.
When ich when was ever not in trouble? But did he whip out whines afore? And when check in wif ales & lifelines anyone earlier O?—Some, now, Mr Bones, many.
—I am fleeing double: Mr Past being no friends of mine, all them around: Sir Future Dubious, calamitous & grand: I can no foothold here; wherefore I pines for Dr Present, who won't thrive to us hand over neither hand from them blue depths nor choppering down skies does Dr Present vault unto his task.
Henry is weft on his own.
Pluck Dr Present.
Let his grievous wives thrall lie to livey toads.
May his chains bask.
lower him, Capt Owen, into the sun.

Written by John Berryman |

Dream Song 50: In a motion of night they massed nearer my post

 In a motion of night they massed nearer my post.
I hummed a short blues.
When the stars went out I studied my weapons system.
Grenades, the portable rack, the yellow spout of the anthrax-ray: in order.
Yes, and most of my pencils were sharp.
This edge of the galaxy has often seen a defence so stiff, but it could only go one way.
—Mr Bones, your troubles give me vertigo, & backache.
Somehow, when I make your scene, I cave to feel as if de roses of dawns & pearls of dusks, made up by some ol' writer-man, got right forgot & the greennesses of ours.
Springwater grow so thick it gonna clot and the pleasing ladies cease.
I figure, yup, you is bad powers.

Written by John Berryman |

Dream Song 14: Life friends is boring

 Life, friends, is boring.
We must not say so.
After all, the sky flashes, the great sea yearns, we ourselves flash and yearn, and moreover my mother told me as a boy (repeatedly) 'Ever to confess you're bored means you have no Inner Resources.
' I conclude now I have no inner resources, because I am heavy bored.
Peoples bore me, literature bores me, especially great literature, Henry bores me, with his plights & gripes as bad as achilles, Who loves people and valiant art, which bores me.
And the tranquil hills, & gin, look like a drag and somehow a dog has taken itself & its tail considerably away into mountains or sea or sky, leaving behind: me, wag.