poet John Berryman

John Berryman

#260 on top 500 poets

Comments about John Berryman

  • Michael Walker Michael Walker (7/31/2019 12:32:00 AM)

    His best poem, I think, is 'The Traveller'. The speaker in the poem is hyper-sensitive to what other people think of him. He finds company with the couple who get off the train, so he does too.
    The 'Dream Songs' are not as good at all.

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  • Strange Keith (2/24/2018 12:30:00 PM)

    This guy Berryman makes my itch.

    1 person liked.
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  • Christopher Amati (9/4/2014 5:37:00 PM)

    I am reading Dream Songs. I cant really like this poetry. I like Lowell so much, I thought I could eventually like Berryman, but no. Lowell is sculptural, so dramatic and so inventive. Berryman just seems kind of...whiny

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  • Kenneth Belknap (4/1/2011 10:37:00 PM)

    Came here just to find some of the Dream Songs. Are there lots of poets who are unreadable on this sight?

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  • Aj Pinquot (6/27/2010 7:48:00 PM)

    Is there any way to actually, you know, read the effing poems?

    25 person liked.
    12 person did not like.
  • Ravi Avasthi (8/30/2009 11:27:00 AM)

    too early to comment, just opened my account

    11 person liked.
    7 person did not like.
Best Poem of John Berryman

Dream Song 14: Life, Friends, Is Boring

Life, friends, is boring. We must not say so.
After all, the sky flashes, the great sea yearns,
we ourselves flash and yearn,
and moreover my mother told me as a boy
(repeatedly) 'Ever to confess you're bored
means you have no

Inner Resources.' I conclude now I have no
inner resources, because I am heavy bored.
Peoples bore me,
literature bores me, especially great literature,
Henry bores me, with his plights & gripes
as bad as achilles,

Who loves people and valiant art, which bores me.
And the tranquil hills, & gin, look like a ...

Read the full of Dream Song 14: Life, Friends, Is Boring

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,