Written by
John Berryman |
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.
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Written by
John Berryman |
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.
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Written by
John Berryman |
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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Written by
John Berryman |
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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Written by
John Berryman |
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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Written by
John Berryman |
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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Written by
John Berryman |
Thin as a sheet his mother came to him
during the screaming evenings after he did it,
touched F.
J.
'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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Written by
John Berryman |
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.
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Written by
John Berryman |
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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Written by
John Berryman |
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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