I haven’t fallen off the planet or anything, but the Knitting Olympics and trading offices with my husband have been monopolizing (biopolizing?) my time.  Done and done. I am normally the Queen of Class Participation.  I’ll try to be a better student from here on out.

I finally got comfortable enough with my own version of Berryman’s voice to listen to his actual voice, which Rachel linked to a while back.  Wowza!  First, how can I not love a person whose response to applause is "Knock it off, ladies and gentlemen."  I love the combination of self-deprecating humor and true annoyance at adulation.  I agree that he sounds drunk or a bit sedated.  It makes sense.  It’s uncomfortable to listen to.  It should be, I think, all things considered.

Berryman: "Now, I don’t give a damn about the Dreamsongs.  I’ve lost interest in them.  But other people are interested in them, so I will read some.  But it’s the new book that has also begun to lose my interest.   The Dreamsongs are about a man named Henry.  Henry is a white American in early middle age.  His age changes in the poem, which took me 13 years to write, from 41 to 51.  And he has many adventures and has been married at least three times and is often a bachelor in between the marriages.  And he has suffered an irreversible loss.  The work is called witty by people here and abroad, but it’s not fundamentally humorous.  It’s dark." 

Just.  Wow.  Writers who are trying to sell books don’t tell you their most famous work doesn’t interest them anymore, and that they’re losing interest in their current projects, true or no.  Berryman has a painful disinterest in his work and his life, but it’s welded to huge bravery. 

Listening to Berryman read Dreamsong #1 almost made me weep.  I know these poems are largely autobiographical.  Hearing the sadness of that poem is crushing, even though I would read the words differently if they were mine.  At this point, the final two lines are among my favorite lines in English.  The upswing in his tone as he reads them leaves a gaping wound.  I don’t see how Henry survived, either, knowing that loneliness is our only payment for our life’s work.  Thankfully, I’ve got the  They Might Be Giants cheery absurdist view of our doom, and it comes with a jangly soundtrack (Don’t Let’s Start–everybody dies frustrated and sad, and that is beautiful).

Yeesh.  Let’s read some really cheery e.e. cummings next, mmmkay?

Four is much less right in the reading, until he’s discussing spumoni, and then I believe he still has a bit of lust left.  Just a bit.  I’m glad he carries the humor through Dreamsong 14, and the cracks about Harpers are wonderful.  The pause between:
and moreover my mother told me as a boy
(repeatedly) ‘Ever to confess you’re bored
means you have no

Inner Resources.’

and
I conclude now I have no
inner resources, because I am heavy bored.
shows true comic timing.  I think Berryman decided to be Henry’s friend rather than Henry, here.  I can’t say I blame him. 

Berryman starts scaring me again in #76.  Which is odd, since, you know, I clearly can’t take away his depression or suicidal urges.  I can’t imagine how uncomfortable the audience must have been, hearing this:
Henry’s Confession

Nothin very bad happen to me lately.
How you explain that? "I explain that, Mr Bones,
terms o’ your bafflin odd sobriety.
Sober as man can get, no girls, no telephones,
what could happen bad to Mr Bones?
"If life is a handkerchief sandwich,

I offers you this handkerchief, now set
your left foot by my right foot,
shoulder to shoulder, all that jazz,
arm in arm, by the beautiful sea,
hum a little, Mr Bones.
"I saw nobody coming, so I went instead.

So why are we so drawn to pain in writing?  What is it that allows us to look so unabashedly at our suicidal poets?   Ok, I’m going back to some jangly chipper goodness from John and John to make a happier start to my weekend.  Unlike Henry, I’m not looking forward to a posthumous opus about me appearing anytime soon.  I’ve want to extend this gig for as long as I can. 

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