Homage To John Berryman
© Surazeus
2018 04 18
John Berryman stands on the Bridge of Sight
that harps in weird winter wind of despair,
and looks for rotting body of Hart Crane
floating on quick waves of the hungry sea.
John wears the long scarlet mantle of fame
and sings broken riddles in blowing snow,
"The three men coming down the winter hill,"
but stares at headlights of cars zooming past.
The voices of ten thousand poets and singers
froth melodies through the turbulent river
that roar from the tune of his beating heart
when Henry laughs at flash of the green sun.
Henry holds thought that they thought in his hand,
crippled bird fluttering wings to escape hope,
but he falls like Lucifer from blank sky
to float in turbulent river of song.
John Brown grips the rifle of revolution
and cries out in the wilderness of freedom
to lead the army of the righteous forth
to free mankind from slavery of faith.
Dressed in black gown, Anne Bradstreet sits alone
at midnight in log cabin of dream songs,
and from moonlight slanting on her white page
she writes poem on Four Ages of Man.
We crawl on four limbs like our first ancestors,
then learn to walk in surging ocean waves,
then dance on ziggurats, chanting dream spells,
then type on computers in towers of glass.
John watches rocket soar from Cape Canaveral,
and laughs, running circles with arms spread wide,
"We will never escape this spinning ball
that spirals nowhere in the blank abyss."
Gazing down at the gray turbulent river,
John watches Hart Crane rise on tattered wings
and float above him in the gusting snow
with seven eyes blinking on his forehead.
"Let me show you what the world would be like
if you had never been born," dead Hart howls,
then carries Henry to the mountain top
to whisper sweet temptations in his ear.
"Bow to me, Henry, prophet of the maudlin,
and I will crown you Poet Laureate,"
but John laughs and points across America
where people listen to radios in cars.
John Henry raises hammer to the sky
and drives gold nail into the rocky soil,
constructing railroad sea to shining sea,
and blood of his heart fuels computer servers.
"The world would be the same," Henry declares
to cars zooming by on ice-covered bridge,
"whether or not my soul was ever born,
so with John Brown I molder in the grave."
John Berryman hangs on telephone pole,
crucified by fear, voices of the living
jolting his brain with dream songs of the lost,
and sings with static on the radio.
Anne Bradstreet and her grandson John Brown stride
west across the waste land to Idaho
to fracture my brain in puzzle of tales
so I can sing quest of humanity.
Jimmy Stewart leaps when the angel weeps
and flows with the river back to the sea
where we first evolved from eye of the light
and his pearl eyes watch us fight for his crown.
© Surazeus
2018 04 18
John Berryman stands on the Bridge of Sight
that harps in weird winter wind of despair,
and looks for rotting body of Hart Crane
floating on quick waves of the hungry sea.
John wears the long scarlet mantle of fame
and sings broken riddles in blowing snow,
"The three men coming down the winter hill,"
but stares at headlights of cars zooming past.
The voices of ten thousand poets and singers
froth melodies through the turbulent river
that roar from the tune of his beating heart
when Henry laughs at flash of the green sun.
Henry holds thought that they thought in his hand,
crippled bird fluttering wings to escape hope,
but he falls like Lucifer from blank sky
to float in turbulent river of song.
John Brown grips the rifle of revolution
and cries out in the wilderness of freedom
to lead the army of the righteous forth
to free mankind from slavery of faith.
Dressed in black gown, Anne Bradstreet sits alone
at midnight in log cabin of dream songs,
and from moonlight slanting on her white page
she writes poem on Four Ages of Man.
We crawl on four limbs like our first ancestors,
then learn to walk in surging ocean waves,
then dance on ziggurats, chanting dream spells,
then type on computers in towers of glass.
John watches rocket soar from Cape Canaveral,
and laughs, running circles with arms spread wide,
"We will never escape this spinning ball
that spirals nowhere in the blank abyss."
Gazing down at the gray turbulent river,
John watches Hart Crane rise on tattered wings
and float above him in the gusting snow
with seven eyes blinking on his forehead.
"Let me show you what the world would be like
if you had never been born," dead Hart howls,
then carries Henry to the mountain top
to whisper sweet temptations in his ear.
"Bow to me, Henry, prophet of the maudlin,
and I will crown you Poet Laureate,"
but John laughs and points across America
where people listen to radios in cars.
John Henry raises hammer to the sky
and drives gold nail into the rocky soil,
constructing railroad sea to shining sea,
and blood of his heart fuels computer servers.
"The world would be the same," Henry declares
to cars zooming by on ice-covered bridge,
"whether or not my soul was ever born,
so with John Brown I molder in the grave."
John Berryman hangs on telephone pole,
crucified by fear, voices of the living
jolting his brain with dream songs of the lost,
and sings with static on the radio.
Anne Bradstreet and her grandson John Brown stride
west across the waste land to Idaho
to fracture my brain in puzzle of tales
so I can sing quest of humanity.
Jimmy Stewart leaps when the angel weeps
and flows with the river back to the sea
where we first evolved from eye of the light
and his pearl eyes watch us fight for his crown.
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