Collected Poems, 1937-1971

by John Berryman

This volume brings together all of Berryman’s poetry, except for his epic The Dream Songs, ranging from his earliest unpublished poem (1934) to those written in the last months of his life (1972). A definitive edition of one of America’s most distinguished poets.

Genres: Poetry, Literature, American, 20th Century, The United States Of America, Literary Fiction

348 pages, Paperback

First published January 1, 1989

About the author

John Allyn Berryman (originally John Allyn Smith) was an American poet, born in McAlester, Oklahoma. He was a major figure in American poetry in the second half of the 20th century and often considered one of the founders of the Confessional school of poetry. He was the author of The Dream Songs, which are playful, witty, and morbid. Berryman committed suicide in 1972.

A pamphlet entitled Poems was published in 1942 and his first proper book, The Dispossessed, appeared six years later. Of his youthful self he said, 'I didn't want to be like Yeats; I wanted to be Yeats.' His first major work, in which he began to develop his own unique style of writing, was Homage to Mistress Bradstreet, which appeared in Partisan Review in 1953 and was published as a book in 1956. Another pamphle.

His thought made pockets & the plane buckt, followed. It was the collection called Dream Songs that earned him the most admiration. The first volume, entitled 77 Dream Songs, was published in 1964 and won the Pulitzer Prize for poetry. The second volume, entitled His Toy, His Dream, His Rest, appeared in 1968.

The two volumes were combined as The Dream Songs in 1969. By that time Berryman, though not a "popular" poet, was well established as an important force in the literary world, and he was widely read among his contemporaries. In 1970 he published the drastically different Love & Fame. It received many negative reviews, along with a little praise, most notably from Saul Bellow and John Bailey. Despite its negative reception, its colloquial style and sexual forthrightness have influenced many younger poets, especially from Britain and Ireland. Delusions Etc., his bleak final collection, which he prepared for printing but did not live to see appear, continues in a similar vein. Another book of poems, Henry's Fate, culled from Berryman's manuscripts, appeared posthumously, as did a book of essays, The Freedom of the Poet, and some drafts of a novel, Recovery.

The poems that form Dream Songs involve a character who is by turns the narrator and the person addressed by a narrator. Because readers assumed that these voices were the poet speaking directly of himself, Berryman's poetry was considered part of the Confessional poetry movement. Berryman, however, scorned the idea that he was a Confessional poet.

Reviews

[Steven Godin · Rating 4 out of 5]

Sacred & unutterable Mind
flashing thorough the universe one thought,
I do wait without peace.
In the article of death I budge.
Eat my sore breath. Black Angel. Let me die.
Body a-drain, when will you be dry
and countenance my speed
to Heaven's springs? lest stricter writhings have me declined.

[Illiterate · Rating 4 out of 5]

Betwixt personal confession and adopted personae. Starts with learned images/allusions; ends with religious solace. (Dream Songs aren’t included.)

[justin, the geezer]

“I won’t mention the dreams I won’t repeat
sweating & shaking: something’s gotta give”

Henry’s Understanding:

He was reading late, at Richard's, down in Maine,
aged 32? Richard & Helen long in bed,
my good wife long in bed.
All I had to do was strip & get into my bed,
putting the marker in the book, & sleep,
& wake to a hot breakfast.

Off the coast was an island, P'tit Manaan,
the bluff from Richard's lawn was almost sheer.
A chill at four o'clock.
It only takes a few minutes to make a man.
A concentration upon now & here.
Suddenly, unlike Bach,

& horribly, unlike Bach, it occurred to me
that one night, instead of warm pajamas,
I'd take off all my clothes
& cross the damp cold lawn & down the bluff
into the terrible water & walk forever
under it out toward the island.

Henry by Night:

Henry’s nocturnal habits were the terror of his women.
First it appears he snored, lying on his back.
Then he thrashed & tossed,
changing position like a task fleet. Then, inhuman,
he woke every hour or so—they couldn’t keep track
of mobile Henry, lost

at 3 a.m., off for more drugs or a cigarette,
reading old mail, writing new letters, scribbling
excessive Songs;
back then to bed, to the old tune or get set
for a stercoraceous cough, without quibbling
death-like. His women’s wrongs

they hoarded & forgave, mysterious, sweet;
but you’ll have to admit it was no way to live
or even keep alive.
I won’t mention the dreams I won’t repeat
sweating & shaking: something’s gotta give:
up for good at five.

He Resigns:

Age, and the deaths, and the ghosts.
Her having gone away
in spirit from me. Hosts
of regrets come & find me empty.

I don't feel this will change.
I don't want any thing
or person, familiar or strange.
I don't think I will sing

any more just now;
ever. I must start
to sit with a blind brow
above an empty heart.

Of Suicide:

Reflexions on suicide, & on my father, possess me.
I drink too much. My wife threatens separation.
She won’t ‘nurse’ me. She feels ‘inadequate’.
We don’t mix together.

It’s an hour later in the East.
I could call up Mother in Washington, D.C.
But could she help me?
And all this postal adulation & reproach?

A basis rock-like of love & friendship
for all this world-wide madness seems to be needed.
Epictetus is in some ways my favourite philosopher.
Happy men have died earlier.

I still plan to go to Mexico this summer.
The Olmec images! Chichén Itzá!
D. H. Lawrence has a wild dream of it.
Malcolm Lowry’ s book when it came out I taught to my precept at Princeton.

I don’t entirely resign. I may teach the Third Gospel
this afternoon. I haven’t made up my mind.
It seems to me sometimes that others have easier jobs
& do them worse.

Well, we must labour & dream. Gogol was impotent,
somebody in Pittsburgh told me.
I said: At what age? They couldn’t answer.
That is a damned serious matter.

Rembrandt was sober. There we differ. Sober.
Terrors came on him. To us too they come.
Of suicide I continually think.
Apparently he didn’t. I’ll teach Luke.

[Janie Bailey · Rating 5 out of 5]

It's amazing how people can assume that they know a person without actually getting to know that person. #1 I'm not in any way related to this John Berryman but somehow his writing is seriously familiar. My brother his name is John Berryman even though he doesn't claim me as his sister tried to bust my knee caps off me when I was just 11 years old. When I was diagnosed bipolar/A. D. D at 15 years old my brother offered to fix the problem with a 45 cal. He's a real nice guy that was also a drunk like this John but my grandfather name is also John Berryman as far as I know he wasnt this man see this man is NOT a Berryman at all it reads that he was adopted. So please leave me and my family out of your books its not nice to talk about the dead. As it could come back to haunt you all. Or could come with a hefty law suit. And if you are going to list your books with his name why not use your own name. Whatever the issue is here we can always allow the judge decide if I'm correct in my findings and see if i can't prove that you all are indeed writing about me and my family. Let's give it a whirl and then let's tell the magistrate how you obtained the stories that are written and the information Im sure they could figure out that You have been stealing my notes my poetry my son's poetry thoughts written down my dream books from the ages of 14 until now I'm 51 years old and I may not be a scholar and I may not know why you are writing these negative and insulting things. But you are wrong about us and wrong for publishing my life or my family and I will die trying to take them all down. And I'll do it for no money at all just the pure pleasure of showing the world what kind of people you are. Thanks alot for helping to ruin any future of writing which I really wanted to do before I died but I'm good you all can have the game of fame. Yours truly,Laurel Jane Berryman

[Hugh · Rating 3 out of 5]

loved the dream songs, particularly the early ones, and really enjoyed Homage to Mistress Broadstreet, which i will definitely be revisiting. the early stuff doesn't do a lot for me, and the dream songs definitely taper off in quality.

[Uther Pendragon · Rating 5 out of 5]

The introduction, if not on par with, is second only to a Helen Vendler introduction, and combined with the appendices makes this book priceless.

[j e rodriguez · Rating 3 out of 5]

"Nouns, verbs do not exist for what I feel."

[Joyce · Rating 5 out of 5]

rating for the loose poems outside the proper collections and the editorial matter, berryman's work just does it for me so even the loose scraps are satisyfing, and thornbury's work is exemplary

[Katrinka · Rating 3 out of 5]

Finished! Hard to rate a collection spanning 30-plus years; Homage to Mistress Bradstreet was probably tops for me—whereas Love & Fame was the ultimate in had-to-be-there navel-gazing.

[Derek Kraus · Rating 5 out of 5]

At his most agonized and discordant, reading Berryman is like looking into the mirror and seeing the most haggard, weathered version of yourself.

[s · Rating 3 out of 5]

3.25

“You have come to my rescue again & again / in my impassable, sometimes despairing years. / You have allowed my brilliant friends to destroy themselves / and I am still here, severely damaged, but functioning.”

[Ian · Rating 4 out of 5]

The collection contains all the poems but The Dream Songs, which are collected separately. I found that this book was a good entry point for reading and understanding Berryman. The edition also offers a descent biography, if , like me you have little knowledge of Berryman and his work.

[Brendan · Rating 5 out of 5]

From the scholarly exercises that mark the beginnings of Berryman's work as a poet to the strange depressing and religious works that mark its end, almost everything here is thoroughly beautiful, and well worth reading.

[Matthew · Rating 5 out of 5]

I'm Henry whisker-cat. My pussy flies.

[Patrick Dugan · Rating 3 out of 5]

Prosaic. Boring. Thinks it's more daring than it is.