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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 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 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 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 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 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 19: Here whence

 Here, whence
all have departed orwill do, here airless, where
that witchy ball
wanted, fought toward, dreamed of, all a green living
drops limply into one's hands
without pleasure or interest

Figurez-vous, a time swarms when the word
'happy' sheds its whole meaning, like to come and
like for memory too
That morning arrived to Henry as well a great cheque
eaten out already by the Government & State &
other strange matters

Gentle friendly Henry Pussy-cat
smiled into his mirror, a murderer's
(at Stillwater), at himself alone
and said across a plink to that desolate fellow
said a little hail & buck-you-up
upon his triumph

Written by John Berryman |

Dream Song 113: or Amy Vladeck or Riva Freifeld

 or Amy Vladeck or Riva Freifeld

That isna Henry limping.
That's a hobble clapped on mere Henry by the most high GOD for the freedom of Henry's soul.
—The body's foul, cried god, once, twice, & bound it— For many years I hid it from him successfully— I'm not clear how he found it But now he has it—much good may it do him in the vacant spiritual of space— only Russians & Americans to as it were converse with—weel, one Frenchman to liven up the airless with one nose & opinions clever & grim.
God declared war on Valerie Trueblood, against Miss Kaplan he had much to say O much to say too.
My memory of his kindness comes like a flood for which I flush with gratitude; yet away he shouldna have put down Miss Trueblood.

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 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 324: An Elegy for W.C.W. the lovely man

 Henry in Ireland to Bill underground:
Rest well, who worked so hard, who made a good sound
constantly, for so many years:
your high-jinks delighted the continents & our ears:
you had so many girls your life was a triumph
and you loved your one wife.
At dawn you rose & wrote—the books poured forth— you delivered infinite babies, in one great birth— and your generosity to juniors made you deeply loved, deeply: if envy was a Henry trademark, he would envy you, especially the being through.
Too many journeys lie for him ahead, too many galleys & page-proofs to be read, he would like to lie down in your sweet silence, to whom was not denied the mysterious late excellence which is the crown of our trials & our last bride.

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.

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 |

Sonnet 96

 It will seem strange, no more this range on range
Of opening hopes and happenings.
Strange to be One's name no longer.
Not caught up, not free.
Strange, not to wish one's wishes onward.
Strange, The looseness, slopping, time and space estrange.
Strangest, and sad as a blind child, not to see Ever you, never to hear you, endlessly Neither you there, nor coming.
Heavy change!— An instant there is, Sophoclean, true, When Oedipus must understand: his head— When Oedipus believes—tilts like a wave, And will not break, only iov iov Wells from his dreadful mouth, the love he led: Prolong to Procyon this.
This begins my grave.

Written by John Berryman |

Dream Song 88: Op. posth. no. 11

 In slack times visit I the violent dead
and pick their awful brains.
Most seem to feel nothing is secret more to my disdain I find, when we who fled cherish the knowings of both worlds, conceal more, beat on the floor, where Bhain is stagnant, dear of Henry's friends, yellow with cancer, paper-thin, & bent even in the hospital bed racked with high hope, on whom death lay hands in weeks, or Yeats in the London spring half-spent, only the grand gift in his head going for him, a seated ruin of a man courteous to a junior, like one of the boarders, or Dylan, with more to say now there's no hurry, and we're all a clan.
You'd think off here one would be free from orders.
I didn't hear a single word.
I obeyed.