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Dream Song 107: Three 'coons come at his garbage He be cross

Three 'coons come at his garbage. He be cross,

I figuring porcupine & took Sir poker

unbarring Mr door,

& then screen door. Ah, but the little 'coon,

hardly a foot (not counting tail) got in with

two more at the porch-edge

and they swirled, before some two swerve off

this side of crab tree, and my dear friend held

by John Berryman

Dream Song 103: I consider a song will be as humming-bird

I consider a song will be as humming-bird

swift, down-light, missile-metal-hard, & strange

as the world of anti-matter

where they are wondering: does time run backward—

which the poet thought was true; Scarlatti-supple;

but can Henry write it?

Wreckt, in deep danger, he shook once his head,

returning to meditation. And word had sped

by John Berryman

Dream Song 106: 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

by John Berryman

Dream Song 116: Through the forest, followed, Henry made his silky way

Through the forest, followed, Henry made his silky way,

No chickadee was troubled, small moss smiled

on his swift passage.

But there were those ahead when at midday

they met in a clearing and lookt at each other awhile.

To kill was not the message.

He only could go with them—odds? 20 to one-and-a-half;

pointless. Besides, palaver with the High Chief

by John Berryman

Dream Song 102: The sunburnt terraces which swans make home

The sunburnt terraces which swans make home

with water purling, Macchu Pichu died

like Delphi long ago—

a message to Justinian closing it out,

the thousand years' authority, although

tho' never found exactly wrong

political patterns did indeed emerge;

the Oracle was conservative, like Lippmann,

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.

by John Berryman

Dream Song 265: I don't know one damned butterfly from another

I don't know one damned butterfly from another

my ignorance of the stars is formidable,

also of dogs & ferns

except that around my house one destroys the other

When I reckon up my real ignorance, pal,

I mumble "many returns"—

next time it will be nature & Thoreau

this time is Baudelaire if one had the skill

by John Berryman

Dream Song 10

There were strange gatherings. A vote would come

that would be no vote. There would come a rope.

Yes. There would come a rope.

Men have their hats down. "Dancing in the Dark"

will see him up, car-radio-wise. So many, some

won't find a rut to park.

It is in the occasions, that—not the fathomless heart—

the thinky death consists;

by John Berryman

Dream Song 77: Seedy Henry rose up shy

Seedy Henry rose up shy in de world

& shaved & swung his barbells, duded Henry up

and p.a.'d poor thousands of persons on topics of grand

moment to Henry, ah to those less & none.

Wif a book of his in either hand

he is stript down to move on.

—Come away, Mr. Bones.

—Henry is tired of the winter,

by John Berryman

Sonnet 115 - All we were going strong last night this time

All we were going strong last night this time,

the mosts were flying & the frozen daiquiris

were downing, supine on the floor lay Lise

listening to Schubert grievous & sublime,

my head was frantic with a following rime:

it was a good evening, and evening to please,

I kissed her in the kitchen -ecstasies-

among so much good we tamped down the crime.

by John Berryman

Dream Song 46

I am, outside. Incredible panic rules.

People are blowing and beating each other without mercy.

Drinks are boiling. Iced

drinks are boiling. The worse anyone feels, the worse

treated he is. Fools elect fools.

A harmless man at an intersection said, under his breath, "Christ!"

That word, so spoken, affected the vision

of, when they trod to work next day, shopkeepers

by John Berryman

Winter Landscape

The three men coming down the winter hill

In brown, with tall poles and a pack of hounds

At heel, through the arrangement of the trees,

Past the five figures at the burning straw,

Returning cold and silent to their town,

Returning to the drifted snow, the rink

Lively with children, to the older men,

The long companions they can never reach,

by John Berryman