The Heart Is Strange: New Selected Poems Read online

  On the morning of Friday, January 7, 1972, Berryman took the bus from his home to the university, but instead of going to his office he walked onto the Washington Avenue Bridge. He climbed over the railing, and then—according to one witness—waved goodbye before jumping. His body landed on the embankment of the west side of the Mississippi River. This great poet of shifting personalities could only be identified by the blank check in his pocket, and his glasses, which had his name on the frame.

  There is a strong temptation to read Berryman’s life as tragic, to see in it a parable of art and suffering. His biographers and critics find it hard to resist this precisely because Berryman himself leads them to it. In 1955, he wrote a fragmentary memoir of his school days, and he called it “It Hurts to Learn Anything”; throughout his life he repeatedly expressed his belief in a kind of equation of suffering and creativity. In 1965, when asked by a newspaper interviewer about the elements of good poetry, he replied, “Imagination, love, intellect—and pain. Yes, you’ve got to know pain.” He repeated this in his interview with The Paris Review, which was carried out in the fall of 1970. There, he said, “The artist is extremely lucky who is presented with the worst possible ordeal which will not actually kill him.” This is a Romantic idea, of authority won by hurt, and poetry as dark knowledge, and it is bound up with Berryman’s own brooding upon his death. In a poem from the late 1950s called “The Poet’s Final Instructions,” he explains his wishes for his funeral: “Bury me in a hole, and give a cheer, / near Cedar on Lake Street, where the used cars live.” In his suicide, Berryman seemed to write a fit conclusion to this version of his life.

  I don’t want to leave him like this, however, as a poet of retrospect and endings, as an artist of the grave. This misses something his writing life powerfully was: a joy of voices, antic and alive. There is the tragic urge, but there is also its counter: the pull toward life. In a very late Dream Song—written, according to his biographer Paul Mariani, in 1969, after the publication of His Toy, His Dream, His Rest, which completes the Dream Songs—Berryman considered this divided sense:

  A human personality, that’s impossible.

  The lines of nature & of will, that’s impossible.

  I give the whole thing up.

  His larger project, across his life, was the attempt to capture in verse “a human personality,” and the challenge remained daunting. But then he turns before the poem finishes:

  Only there resides a living voice

  which if we can make we make it out of choice

  not giving the whole thing up.

  —Daniel Swift

  FROM

  The Dispossessed

  (1948)

  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,

  The blue light, men with ladders, by the church

  The sledge and shadow in the twilit street,

  Are not aware that in the sandy time

  To come, the evil waste of history

  Outstretched, they will be seen upon the brow

  Of that same hill: when all their company

  Will have been irrecoverably lost,

  These men, this particular three in brown

  Witnessed by birds will keep the scene and say

  By their configuration with the trees,

  The small bridge, the red houses and the fire,

  What place, what time, what morning occasion

  Sent them into the wood, a pack of hounds

  At heel and the tall poles upon their shoulders,

  Thence to return as now we see them and

  Ankle-deep in snow down the winter hill

  Descend, while three birds watch and the fourth flies.

  The Disciple

  Summoned from offices and homes, we came.

  By candle-light we heard him sing;

  We saw him with a delicate length of string

  Hide coins and bring a paper through a flame;

  I was amazed by what that man could do.

  And later on, in broad daylight,

  He made someone sit suddenly upright

  Who had lain long dead and whose face was blue.

  But most he would astonish us with talk.

  The warm sad cadence of his voice,

  His compassion, and our terror of his choice,

  Brought each of us both glad and mad to walk

  Beside him in the hills after sundown.

  He spoke of birds, of children, long

  And rubbing tribulation without song

  For the indigent and crippled of this town.

  Ventriloquist and strolling mage, from us,

  Respectable citizens, he took

  The hearts and swashed them in an upland brook,

  Calling them his, all men’s, anonymous.

  . . He gained a certain notoriety;

  The magical outcome of such love

  The State saw it could not at all approve

  And sought to learn where when that man would be.

  The people he had entertained stood by,

  I was among them, but one whom

  He harboured kissed him for the coppers’ doom,

  Repenting later most bitterly.

  They ran him down and drove him up the hill.

  He who had lifted but hearts stood

  With thieves, performing still what tricks he could

  For men to come, rapt in compassion still.

  Great nonsense has been spoken of that time.

  But I can tell you I saw then

  A terrible darkness on the face of men,

  His last astonishment; and now that I’m

  Old I behold it as a young man yet.

  None of us now knows what it means,

  But to this day our loves and disciplines

  Worry themselves there. We do not forget.

  A Point of Age, Part I

  At twenty-five a man is on his way.

  The desolate childhood smokes on the dead hill,

  My adolescent brothels are shut down

  For industry has moved out of that town;

  Only the time-dishonoured beggars and

  The flat policemen, victims, I see still.

  Twenty-five is a time to move away.

  The travelling hands upon the tower call,

  The clock-face telescopes a long desire:

  Out of the city as the autos stream

  I watch, I whisper, Is it time . . time?

  Fog is enveloping the bridges, lodgers

  Shoulder and fist each other in the mire

  Where later, leaves, untidy lives will fall.

  Companions, travellers, by luck, by fault

  Whose none can ever decide, friends I had

  Have frozen back or slipt ahead or let

  Landscape juggle their destinations, slut

  Solace and drink drown the degraded eye.

  The fog is settling and the night falls, sad,

  Across the forward shadows where friends halt.

  Images are the mind’s life, and they change.

  How to arrange it—what can one afford

  When ghosts and goods tether the twitching will

  Where it has stood content and would stand still

  If time’s map bore the brat of time intact?

  Odysseys I examine, bed on a board,

  Heartbreak familiar as the heart is strange.

  In the city of the stranger I discovered

  Strike and corruption: cars reared on the bench

  To horn their justice at the citizen’s head

  And hallow the citizen deaf, half-de
ad.

  The quiet man from his own window saw

  Insane wind take the ash, his favourite branch

  Wrench, crack; the hawk came down, the raven hovered.

  Slow spent stars wheel and dwindle where I fell.

  Physicians are a constellation where

  The blown brain sits a fascist to the heart.

  Late, it is late, and it is time to start.

  Sanction the civic woe, deal with your dear,

  Convince the stranger: none of us is well.

  We must travel in the direction of our fear.

  The Traveller

  They pointed me out on the highway, and they said

  ‘That man has a curious way of holding his head.’

  They pointed me out on the beach; they said ‘That man

  Will never become as we are, try as he can.’

  They pointed me out at the station, and the guard

  Looked at me twice, thrice, thoughtfully & hard.

  I took the same train that the others took,

  To the same place. Were it not for that look

  And those words, we were all of us the same.

  I studied merely maps. I tried to name

  The effects of motion on the travellers,

  I watched the couple I could see, the curse

  And blessings of that couple, their destination,

  The deception practiced on them at the station,

  Their courage. When the train stopped and they knew

  The end of their journey, I descended too.

  The Ball Poem

  What is the boy now, who has lost his ball,

  What, what is he to do? I saw it go

  Merrily bouncing, down the street, and then

  Merrily over—there it is in the water!

  No use to say ‘O there are other balls’:

  An ultimate shaking grief fixes the boy

  As he stands rigid, trembling, staring down

  All his young days into the harbour where

  His ball went. I would not intrude on him,

  A dime, another ball, is worthless. Now

  He senses first responsibility

  In a world of possessions. People will take balls,

  Balls will be lost always, little boy,

  And no one buys a ball back. Money is external.

  He is learning, well behind his desperate eyes,

  The epistemology of loss, how to stand up

  Knowing what every man must one day know

  And most know many days, how to stand up

  And gradually light returns to the street,

  A whistle blows, the ball is out of sight,

  Soon part of me will explore the deep and dark

  Floor of the harbour . . I am everywhere,

  I suffer and move, my mind and my heart move

  With all that move me, under the water

  Or whistling, I am not a little boy.

  The Spinning Heart

  The fireflies and the stars our only light,

  We rock, watching between the roses night

  If we could see the roses. We cannot.

  Where do the fireflies go by day, what eat?

  What categories shall we use tonight?

  The day was an exasperating day,

  The day in history must hang its head

  For the foul letters many women got,

  Appointments missed, men dishevelled and sad

  Before their mirrors trying to be proud.

  But now (we say) the sweetness of the night

  Will hide our imperfections from our sight,

  For nothing can be angry or astray,

  No man unpopular, lonely, or beset,

  Where half a yellow moon hangs from a cloud.

  Spinning however and balled up in space

  All hearts, desires, pewter and honeysuckle,

  What can be known of the individual face?

  To the continual drum-beat of the blood

  Mesh sea and mountain recollection, flame,

  Motives in the corridor, touch by night,

  Violent touch, and violence in rooms;

  How shall we reconcile in any light

  This blow and the relations that it wrecked?

  Crescent the pressures on the singular act

  Freeze it at last into its season, place,

  Until the flood and disorder of Spring.

  To Easterfield the court’s best bore, defining

  Space tied into a sailor’s reef, our praise:

  He too is useful, he is part of this,

  Inimitable, tangible, post-human,

  And Theo’s disappointment has a place,

  An item in that metamorphosis

  The horrible coquetry of aging women.

  Our superstitions barnacle our eyes

  To the tide, the coming good; or has it come?—

  Insufficient upon the beaches of the world

  To drown that complex and that bestial drum.

  Triumphant animals,—upon the rest

  Bearing down hard, brooding, come to announce

  The causes and directions of all this

  Biting and breeding,—how will all your sons

  Discover what you, assisted or alone,

  Staring and sweating for seventy years,

  Could never discover, the thing itself?

  Your fears,

  Fidelity, and dandelions grown

  As big as elephants, your morning lust

  Can neither name nor control. No time for shame,

  Whippoorwill calling, excrement falling, time

  Rushes like a madman forward. Nothing can be known.

  The Possessed

  This afternoon, discomfortable dead

  Drift into doorways, lounge, across the bridge,

  Whittling memory at the water’s edge,

  And watch. This is what you inherited.

  Random they are, but hairy, for they chafe

  All in their eye, enlarging like a slide;

  Spectral as men once met or crucified,

  And kind. Until the sun sets you are safe.

  A prey to your most awkward reflection,

  Loose-limbed before the fire you sit appalled.

  And think that by your error you have called

  These to you. Look! the light will soon be gone.

  Excited see from the window the men fade

  In the twilight; reappear two doors down.

  Suppose them well acquainted with the town

  Who built it. Do you fumble in the shade?

  The key was lost, remember, yesterday,

  Or stolen,—undergraduates perhaps;

  But all men are their colleagues, and eclipse

  Very like dusk. It is too late to pray.

  There was a time crepuscular was mild,

  The hour for tea, acquaintances, and fall

  Away of all day’s difficulties, all

  Discouragement. Weep, you are not a child.

  The equine hour rears, no further friend,

  Intolerant, foam-lathered, pregnant with

  Mysterious grave watchers in their wrath

  Let into tired Troy. You are near the end.

  Midsummer Common loses its last gold,

  And grey is there. The sun slants down behind

  A certain cinema, and the world is blind

  But more dangerous. It is growing cold.

  Light all the lights, heap wood upon the fire

  To banish shadow. Draw the curtains tight.

  But sightless eyes will lean through and wide night

  Darken this room of yours. As you desire.

  Think on your sins with all intensity.

  The men are on the stair, they will not wait.

  There is a paper-knife to penetrate

  Heart & guilt together. Do it quickly.

  Parting as Descent

  The sun rushed up the sky; the taxi flew;

  There was a kind of fever on the clock


  That morning. We arrived at Waterloo

  With time to spare and couldn’t find my track.

  The bitter coffee in a small café

  Gave us our conversation. When the train

  Began to move, I saw you turn away

  And vanish, and the vessels in my brain

  Burst, the train roared, the other travellers

  In flames leapt, burning on the tilted air

  Che si cruccia, I heard the devils curse

  And shriek with joy in that place beyond prayer.

  World-Telegram

  Man with a tail heads eastward for the Fair.

  Can open a pack of cigarettes with it.

  Was weaving baskets happily, it seems,

  When found, the almost Missing Link, and brought

  From Ceylon in the interests of science.

  The correspondent doesn’t know how old.

  Two columns left, a mother saw her child

  Crushed with its father by a ten-ton truck

  Against a loading platform, while her son,

  Small, frightened, in a Sea Scout uniform,

  Watched from the Langley. All needed treatment.

  Berlin and Rome are having difficulty

  With a new military pact. Some think

  Russia is not too friendly towards London.

  The British note is called inadequate.

  An Indian girl in Lima, not yet six,

  Has been delivered by Caesarian.

  A boy. They let the correspondent in:

  Shy, uncommunicative, still quite pale,

  A holy picture by her, a blue ribbon.

  Right off the centre, and three columns wide,

  A rather blurred but rather ominous

  Machine-gun being set up by militia

  This morning in Harlan County, Kentucky.

  Apparently some miners died last night.

  ‘Personal brawls’ is the employers’ phrase.

  All this on the front page. Inside, penguins.

  The approaching television of baseball.

  The King approaching Quebec. Cotton down.

  Skirts up. Four persons shot. Advertisements.

  Twenty-six policemen are decorated.

  Mother’s Day repercussions. A film star