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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 | Create an image from this poem

Dream Song 105: As a kid I believed in democracy: I

 As a kid I believed in democracy: I
'saw no alternative'—teaching at The Big Place I ah
put it in practice:
we'd time for one long novel: to a vote—
Gone with the Wind they voted: I crunched 'No'
and we sat down with War & Peace.
As a man I believed in democracy (nobody ever learns anything): only one lazy day my assistant, called James Dow, & I were chatting, in a failure of meeting of minds, and I said curious 'What are your real politics?' 'Oh, I'm a monarchist.
' Finishing his dissertation, in Political Science.
I resign.
The universal contempt for Mr Nixon, whom never I liked but who alert & gutsy served us years under a dope, since dynasty K swarmed in.
Let's have a King maybe, before a few mindless votes.

Written by John Berryman | Create an image from this poem

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.
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Dream Song 128: A hemorrhage of his left ear of Good Friday

 A hemorrhage of his left ear of Good Friday—
so help me Jesus—then made funny too
the other, further one.
There must have been a bit.
Sheets scrubbed away soon all but three nails.
Doctors in this city O will not (his wife cried) come.
Perhaps he's for it.
IF that Filipino doc had diagnosed ah here in Washington that ear-infection ha he'd have been grounded, so in a hall for the ill in Southern California, they opined.
The cabins at eight thou' are pressurized, they swore, my love, bad for— ten days ago—a dim & bloody ear, or ears.
They say are sympathetic, ears, & hears more than they should or did.
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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.
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Dream Song 120: Foes I sniff when I have less to shout

 Foes I sniff, when I have less to shout
or murmur.
Pals alone enormous sounds downward & up bring real.
Loss, deaths, terror.
Over & out, beloved: thanks for cabbage on my wounds: I'll feed you how I feel:— of avocado moist with lemon, yea formaldehyde & rotting sardines O in our appointed time I would I could a touch more fully say my consentless mind.
The senses are below, which in this air sublime do I repudiate.
But foes I sniff! My nose in all directions! I be so brave I creep into an Arctic cave for the rectal temperature of the biggest bear, hibernating—in my left hand sugar.
I totter to the lip of the cliff.

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Dream Song 106: 28 July

 28 July

Calmly, while sat up friendlies & made noise
delight fuller than he can ready sing
or studiously say,
on hearing that the year had swung to pause
and culminated in an abundant thing,
came his Lady's birthday.
Dogs fill daylight, doing each other ill: my own in love was lugged so many blocks we had to have a vet.
Comes unrepentant round the lustful mongrel again today, glaring at her bandages & locks: his bark has grit.
This screen-porch where my puppy suffers and I swarm I hope with heartless love is now towards the close of day the scene of a vision of friendlies who withstand animal nature so far as to allow grace awhile to stay.
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Dream Song 129: Thin as a sheet his mother came to him

 Thin as a sheet his mother came to him
during the screaming evenings after he did it,
touched F.
's dead hand.
The parlour was dark, he was the first pall-bearer in, he gave himself a dare & then did it, the thing was quite unplanned, riots for Henry the unstructured dead, his older playmate fouled, reaching for him and never will he be free from the older boy who died by the cottonwood & now is to be planted, wise & slim, as part of Henry's history.
Christ waits.
That boy was good beyond his years, he served at Mass like Henry, he never did one extreme thing wrong but tender his cold hand, latent with Henry's fears to Henry's shocking touch, whereat he fled and woke screaming, young & strong.
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Dream Song 126: A Thurn

 A Thurn

Among them marble where the man may lie
lie chieftains grand in final phase, or pause,
'O rare Ben Jonson',
dictator too, & the thinky other Johnson,
dictator too, backhanders down of laws,
men of fears, weird & sly.
Not of these least is borne to rest.
If grandeur & mettle prompted his lone journey neither oh crowded shelved nor this slab I celebrates attest his complex slow fame forever (more or less).
I imagine the Abbey among their wonders will be glad of him whom some are sorry for his griefs across the world grievously understated and grateful for that bounty, for bright whims of heavy mind across the tiresome world which the tiresome world debated, complicated.
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Dream Song 132: A Small Dream

 A Small Dream

It was only a small dream of the Golden World,
now you trot off to bed.
I'll turn the machine off, you've danced & trickt us enough.
Unintelligible whines & imprecations, hurled from the second floor, fail to impress your mother and I am the only other and I say go to bed! We'll meet tomorrow, acres of threats dissolve into a smile, you'll be the Little Baby again, while I pursue my path of sorrow & bodies, bodies, to be carried a mile & dropt.
Maybe if frozen slush will represent the soul which is to represented in the hereafter I ask for a decree dooming my bitter enemies to laughter advanced against them.
If the dream was small it was my dream also, Henry's.
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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.