The Dream Songs Book

Mid-way through i wrote:

i am deep into The Dream Songs, John Berryman's book of 385 poems published in 1969, such that i found myself wondering last night whether i can continue to relate to people who haven't read them. this particular effect wore off about an hour after i put the book down, but that's how powerful they are, taken many at a time. the depth of expression and range of emotion is really unlike anything i've ever encountered; he has me grinning wryly one moment and broken hearted ten songs later.

i have more to say, but that's all for now.

192

Love me love me love me love me love me
I am in need thereof, I mean of love,
I married her.
That was a hasty & a violent step
like an unhopeful Kierkegardian leap,
wasn't it, dear?

Slowly the sloth moved on in search of prey,
I see that. The jungles flash with light,
in some angles dark as midnight,
and chuck chuck chuck the spark did make a noise
when he cross the street on de electric wires
but that sloth was alright.

Swiftly the wind rose, gorgons showed their teeth,
while the bombs bombed on empty territory beneath.
I love you.
Will I forget ever my sole guru
far in Calcutta. I do not think so.
Nor will I you.

-------------------
and then, upon finishing:

366

Chilled in this Irish pub I wish my loves
well, well to strangers, well to all his friends,
seven or so in number,
I forgive my enemies, especially two,
races his heart, at so much magnanimity,
can it all be true?

- Mr Bones, you on a trip outside yourself.
Has you seen a medicine man? You sound will-like,
a testament & such.
Is you going? - Oh, I suffer from a strike,
a strike and three balls: I stand up for much,
Wordsworth & that sort of thing.

The pitcher dreamed. He threw a hazy curve,
I took it in my stride & out I struck,
lonesome Henry.
These Songs are not meant to be understood, you understand.
They are only meant to terrify & comfort.
Lilac was found in his hand.


a quick key to decoding: the character Henry is the narrator of the dream songs; he writes of himself in both the first and third person, sometimes second. he is not Berryman, exactly, but almost, like a projection of Berryman. Henry is at times addressed by someone (unidentified, though probably also him) who calls him Mr Bones or some variant thereof.


so, i can be rather flip, i know, but i really cannot find anything other than reverence for this work. amidst topics like society, adultery, religion, poetry, travel and fame, Berryman writes repeatedly and with varying degrees of explicitness about his father's suicide, the death's of friends and his own ambivalence about continuing to live, and my heart breaks for him and with his.

i'm inclined to go on, quote my favorites, explain, but this is not a freshman english paper, and these songs might be things that one just needs to seek out for oneself.