John Berryman - His Toy, His Dream, His Rest

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Sir Francis Chichester in Sydney FOR MY PART I AM ALWAYS FRIGHTENED, AND VERY MUCH SO. I FEAR THE FUTURE OF ALL ENGAGEMENTS . Gordon in Khartoum I AM PICKT UP AND SORTED TO A PIP. MY IMAGINATION IS A MONASTERY AND I AM ITS MONK . Keats to Shelley HE WENT AWAY AND NEVER SAID GOODBYE . I COULD READ HIS LETTERS BUT I SURE CANT READ HIS MIND .

I THOUGHT HES LOVIN ME BUT HE WAS LEAVIN ALL THE TIME . NOW I KNOW THAT MY TRUE LOVE WAS BLIND . Victoria Spivey? Note: THIS VOLUME , comprising Books IV, V, VI, VII, continues and concludes the poem, called The Dream Songs, begun in 77 Dream Songs. The poems in this volume were written over a period of eleven years. My most deep thanks are due to the Ingraham Merrill Foundation and the John Simon Guggenheim Memorial Foundation for generous help without which the poem would probably never have been finished, at least in its present form. My thanks are due also to the President and the Regents of the University of Minnesota, which awarded me a sabbatical leave at a critical moment in the composition.

Acknowledgment is here made also to various editors who printed some of the Songs, especially to Mr Crook and Mr Hamilton of The Times Literary Supplement, which printed most of Book IV. British hospitality to foreign poetry, particularly American, makes a bright spot in a sickening century. Some of the Songs are dedicated to friends: Ellen Siegelman (), Philip Siegelman ( 1801 ), Dr. A. Boyd Thomes (), Maris Thomes ( 239, 295 ), Robert Lowell (), Adrienne Rich ( 294, 307, 362 ), Valerie Trueblood ( 286, 315 ), William Meredith (), Howard Nemerov (), Victoria Bay (), Robert Giroux (). It is idle to reply to critics, but some of the people who addressed themselves to the 77 Dream Songs went so desperately astray (one apologized about it in print, but who ever sees apologies?) that I permit myself one word.

The poem then, whatever its wide cast of characters, is essentially about an imaginary character (not the poet, not me) named Henry, a white American in early middle age sometimes in blackface, who has suffered an irreversible loss and talks about himself sometimes in the first person, sometimes in the third, sometimes even in the second; he has a friend, never named, who addresses him as Mr Bones and variants thereof. Requiescant in pace. J.B. IV Op. posth. 1 Darkened his eye, his wild smile disappeared, inapprehensible his studies grew, nourished he less & less his subject body with good food & rest, something bizarre about Henry, slowly sheared off, unlike you & you, smaller & smaller, till in question stood his eyeteeth and one block of memories These were enough for him implying commands from upstairs & from down, Walts orbic flex, triads of Hegel would incorporate, if you please, into the know-how of the American bard embarrassed Henry heard himself a-being, and the younger Stephen Crane of a powerful memory, of pain, these stood the ancestors, relaxed & hard, whilst Henrys parts were fleeing. 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 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. Op. posth. no. 3 Its buried at a distance, on my insistence, buried. 3 Its buried at a distance, on my insistence, buried.

Weathers severe there, which it will not mind. I miss it. O happies before & during & between the times it got married. I hate the love of leaving it behind, deteriorating & hopeless that. The great Uh climbed above me, far above me, doing the north face, or behind it. Does He love me? over, & flout.

Goodness is bits of outer God. The house-guest (slimmed-down) with one eye open & one breast out. Slimmed-down from by-blow; adoptive-up; was white. A daughter of a friend. His soul is a sight. Op. posth. no. 4 He loom so cagey he say Leema beans and measured his intake to the atmosphere of that fairly stable country. 4 He loom so cagey he say Leema beans and measured his intake to the atmosphere of that fairly stable country.

His ear hurt. Left. The rock-cliffs, a mite sheer at his age, in these places. Scrubbing out his fear, the knowledge that they will take off your hands, both hands; as well as your both feet, & likewise both eyes, might be discouraging to a bloody hero Also you stifle, like you cant draw breath. But this is death which in some vain strive many to avoid, many. Its on its way, where you drop at who stood up, scrunch down small.

It wasnt so much after all to lose, was, Boyd? A body.But, Mr Bones, you needed that. Now I put on my tall hat. Op. posth. no. 5 Maskt as honours, insult like behaving missiles homes.

I bow, & grunt Thank you. Im glad you could come so late. All loves are gratified. Im having to screw a little thing I have to screw. Good nature is over. Herewith ill-wishes.

From a cozy grave rainbow I scornful laughings. Do not do, Father, me down. Lets shuck an obligation. O I have done. Is the inner-coffin burning blue or did Jehovah frown? Jehovah. Yahweh. Period. God. God.

It is marvellous that views so differay (Father is a Jesuit) can love so well each other. We was had. O visit in my last tomb me. Perch? Is a nice pit. Op. no. 6 I recall a boil, whereupon as I had to sit, just where, and when I had to, for deadlines. 6 I recall a boil, whereupon as I had to sit, just where, and when I had to, for deadlines.

O I could learn to type standing, but isnt it slim to be slumped off from that, problems undignified, fiery dig salt mines? Content on ones back flat: coming no deadlineis all ancient nonsense no typewritersha! ha!no typewriters alas! For I have much to open, I know immense troubles & wonders to their secret curse. Yet when erect on my ass, pissed off, I sat two-square, I kept shut his mouth and stilled my nimble fingers across keys. That is I stood up. Now since down I lay, void of love & ruth, Id howl my knowings, only theres the earth overhead. Plop! Op. no. 7 Plop, plop. 7 Plop, plop.

The lobster toppled in the pot, fulfilling, dislike man, his destiny, glowing fire-red, succulent, and on the whole becoming what man wants. I crack my final claw singly, wind up the grave, & to bed. Sound good, Mr Bones. I wish I had me some. (I spose you got a lessen up your slave.) O no no no. Sole I remember; where no lobster swine, pots hot or cold is none.

With you I grieve lightly, and I have no lesson. Bodies are relishy, they say. Heres mine, was. What ever happened to Political Economy, leaving me here? Is a rarein my opinionresponsibility. The military establishments perpetuate themselves forever. Op. posth. no. 8 Flak. 8 Flak.

An eventful thought came to me, who squirm in my hole. How will the matter end? Whos king these nights? What happened to day? Are ships abroad? I would like to but may not entertain a friend. Save me from ghastly frights, Triune! My wood or word seems to be rotting. I daresay Im collapsing. Worms are at hand. No, all that froze, I mean the blood.