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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.
Well.
.
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 | Create an image from this poem

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.
Written by John Berryman | Create an image from this poem

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 | Create an image from this poem

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 | Create an image from this poem

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.
Written by John Berryman | Create an image from this poem

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 | Create an image from this poem

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 | Create an image from this poem

Dream Song 66: All virtues enter into this world:)

 'All virtues enter into this world:')
A Buddhist, doused in the street, serenely burned.
The Secretary of State for War, winking it over, screwed a redhaired whore.
Monsignor Capovilla mourned.
What a week.
A journalism doggy took a leak against absconding coon ('but take one virtue, without which a man can hardly hold his own') the sun in the willow shivers itself & shakes itself green-yellow (Abba Pimen groaned, over the telephone, when asked what that was:) How feel a fellow then when he arrive in fame but lost? but affable, top-shelf.
Quelle sad semaine.
He hardly know his selving.
('that a man') Henry grew hot, got laid, felt bad, survived ('should always reproach himself'.
Written by John Berryman | Create an image from this poem

The Curse

 Cedars and the westward sun.
The darkening sky.
A man alone Watches beside the fallen wall The evening multitudes of sin Crowd in upon us all.
For when the light fails they begin Nocturnal sabotage among The outcast and the loose of tongue, The lax in walk, the murderers: Our twilight universal curse.
Children are faultless in the wood, Untouched.
If they are later made Scandal and index to their time, It is that twilight brings for bread The faculty of crime.
Only the idiot and the dead Stand by, while who were young before Wage insolent and guilty war By night within that ancient house, Immense, black, damned, anonymous.
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