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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

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.

by John Berryman

Dream Song 172

Your face broods from my table, Suicide.

Your force came on like a torrent toward the end

of agony and wrath.

You were christened in the beginning Sylvia Plath

and changed that name for Mrs Hughes and bred

and went on round the bend

till the oven seemed the proper place for you.

I brood upon your face, the geography of grief,

by John Berryman

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,

by John Berryman

Dream Song 1: Huffy Henry hid the day

Huffy Henry hid the day,

unappeasable Henry sulked.

I see his point,—a trying to put things over.

It was the thought that they thought

they could do it made Henry wicked & away.

But he should have come out and talked.

All the world like a woolen lover

once did seem on Henry's side.

by John Berryman

Dream Song 324

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—

by John Berryman

Dream Song 112: My framework is broken, I am coming to an end

My framework is broken, I am coming to an end,

God send it soon. When I had most to say

my tongue clung to the roof

I mean of my mouth. It is my Lady's birthday

which must be honoured, and has been. God send

it soon.

I now must speak to my disciples, west

and east. I say to you, Do not delay

by John Berryman

Dream Song 4: Filling her compact & delicious body

Filling her compact & delicious body

with chicken páprika, she glanced at me

twice.

Fainting with interest, I hungered back

and only the fact of her husband & four other people

kept me from springing on her

or falling at her little feet and crying

'You are the hottest one for years of night

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

by John Berryman

Dream Song 121: Grief is fatiguing He is out of it

Grief is fatiguing. He is out of it,

the whole humiliating Human round,

out of this & that.

He made a-many hearts go pit-a-pat

who now need never mind his nostril-hair

nor a critical error laid bare.

He endured fifty years. He was Randall Jarrell

and wrote a-many books & he wrote well.

by John Berryman

Dream Song 122: He published his girl's bottom in staid pages

He published his girl's bottom in staid pages

of an old weekly. Where will next his rages

ridiculous Henry land?

Tranquil & chaste, de-hammocked, he descended—

upon which note the fable should have ended—

towards the ground, and

while fable wound itself upon him thick

and coats upon his tongue formed, white, terrific:

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

by John Berryman