Tag Archives: John Berryman

Only Sing: 152 Uncollected Dream Songs by John Berryman (Farrar, Straus & Giroux)

Only Sing: 152 Uncollected Dream Songs by John Berryman (Farrar, Straus & Giroux)

John Berryman’s The Dream Songs are 18 line poem dispatches from a private hell, an interior conversation and a kind of madness that facilitates self-diagnosis and a disturbed concern regarding the nature of racism, lust, literature and life itself. They are often regarded as Berryman’s finest achievement, although I find Berryman’s Sonnets more consistent and accomplished.

Berryman’s original two published books of Dream Songs have previously been compiled as a complete version, although this new gathering pointed me towards Henry’s Fate & Other Poems, a previous posthumous publication I was unaware of, published back in 1977 and containing a sizable selection of works not in the standard volume. 

Shane McCrae is the editor of this new collection, and he explains how an interview with Berryman alerted him to the existence of hundreds of other Dream Songs, prompting him to undertake this project. However, many of the unpublished poems turned out to be drafts or fragments, unfinished work which McCrae has mostly not included, although the book does include some poems not yet expanded to 18 lines, and some that include lines or phrases from other poems. Although I can understand McCrae’s decision to be as invisible, or non-present, as possible, I do feel his choice of arranging the book by the alphabetical order of first line is an abdication of editorial responsibility and brings an inappropriate element of chance procedure into play.

Berryman seemed to have realised these poems would be published in due course and discussed how readers would have to slot them in to the published books as episodes in what McCrae here in his Introduction has decided is an epic. Unfortunately, many of the poems in this new book are rooted to occasion, to dedicatees, events, happenings and deaths; are much more specific in their subject than most of the previously published texts.

Many seem casual and slight, prone to striving for profundity. Or, if that seems harsh, perhaps they are profound poems trying too hard to be flippant and funny, seeking a way to make light of trauma. Sometimes the poems read as a kind of prayer and/or an attempt to provoke the God the poem is addressing. Elsewhere, the tone is often elegiac, but others of the poems feel unfinished, abandoned, unloved and somewhat isolated out of any sequence or order.

Most, of course, contain sparkling lines of repartee or astonishing asides, despite the ongoing issue of Berryman’s character at times speaking in blackface. We know Berryman was not racist (he turned down many jobs in the South because of how blacks were treated there) yet the minstrelsy ventriloquism of Henry still sometimes leaves a sour taste in the mouth, one not totally rinsed away by McCrae’s brief defence of the issue in his statement that Berryman ‘did not allow whiteness to be a default position’ and that ‘Henry’s use of verbal blackface might be off-putting, but it is essential.’

I find Berryman’s writing fascinating, both here and in general, but I have to say that despite occasional fantastic complete poems, many brilliant lines and phrases, some laugh-out-loud self-deprecation by the narrator[s], and plenty of provocative and still topical questioning, the texts here do not accumulate sense and meaning in the way previous Dream Songs do, let alone offer any narrative connections. Rather disappointingly, it feels like an aside or apocryphal excursion, a book mostly for fans, scholars and troubled poets.

Rupert Loydell 16th September 2025

This Is Not Your Moon by Matthew Woodman (Holding Dissolve Press)

This Is Not Your Moon by Matthew Woodman (Holding Dissolve Press)

Creative writing educators so often caution their students against writing poems about the moon because those poems can easily descend into cliche that doing so has become a kind of cliche. Given the content and approach to This Is Not Your Moon, it’s no surprise that Matthew Woodman has written an entire collection of poems about the moon. There is something of Charles Simic, John Berryman, and William Carlos Williams in his work, but there is something beyond these writers too, a critical eye that has anyone who reads his work questioning the basis of how we see the world. The essence of this collection is incongruity; much of it is an investigation of different instances of reification and suggesting that we should escape the falseness of our thinking.

     One of the fallacious beliefs that This Is Not Your Moon returns to often is the idea of permanence. Nothing is solid. That which we base our lives upon is at best temporary, and often does not actually exist, but it’s easy to ascribe a permanence. For example in “Tidal Friction (The Moon Moves from Earth at the Same Speed Our Fingernails Grow),” he speaks to the moon:

                        If you won’t slacken the axis,

            if you won’t arrest the greater distance

            or explain the irregularities,

            we can’t have you circulate the children,

            we can’t have you illuminate the lovers,

            we can’t have you wreath our intimacy (15).

Here, he juxtaposes the human need for regularity with the fact that nothing truly has regularity, not even the moon. There are irregularities in its orbit and it is currently moving slowly away. But the speaker of the poem demands stability from the moon, feels terrified without that stability. Of course, instability is both terrifying and a part of the human condition as he points out in “Eternal Returns” when he meditates on the death of a loved one: 

            Warning: Objects in the night sky are more

            distant than they appear.

                                                The same applies

            to those you love (44).

Like the moon we are not permanent, and we are bound to leave whether we want to or not.

     Woodman is not, however, positioning himself as someone with the answers; one of the points of the books is that we are all seeking a kind of knowledge that will never be given to us, and such is the case in the poem, “Bright Jawbreaker, I Do Salute You,” where he grapples with a question about the nature of the human experience, the fact that we do not retain the same number of bones through our existence.

            At birth, we are the sum of two-hundred

            seventy bones.

                                                By adulthood, we have

            lost sixty-four, the someday plunder.

            What happened to them? (10).

Not even our bodies are solid, and this lack of solidity, he finds disturbing and difficult. 

     This questioning gets to the root of what he is doing here. The questions he poses, about the nature of life, death and the universe, are the difficult ones that we build elaborate structures to protect ourselves from. Rather than buy into the reification meant to shelter us from existential pain and loss, he heads straight into it.

John Brantingham 9th May 2021