Wednesday

25 October 2017

— leaves hastening east past my window

Good Morning All,

When I did today’s Day Book a couple of months ago, I made the old mistake of thinking myself in a hurry. The birthday poet (1914) was John Berryman. I knew what poem of his I wanted, The Ball Poem, but it was 25 lines long, too many if I also wanted to get in something from Anne Tyler, an author I like a lot, also born today (1941).

So, I read only thirty or forty of his poems, but on that day could not find one I liked and short enough to fit the page. I ended up, putting in half The Ball Ball, and went on to other things, feeling—as usually was the case when I short changed the poem, the poet, and any readers—displeased with myself.

This morning, I have been in no hurry and—as such—luckier. First I read up a bit on Berryman. He was not handed the easiest life. At the age of twelve, both his parents in the process of filing for divorce, his father stepped outside the house and near his son’s window blew his brains out, an event that haunted Berryman and showed up often in his poetry.

He was to become what is called a “confessional poet”, the kind of poet who mines his own conscience, his regrets, and the sorts of thoughts and feelings a person is not supposed to have. Many other poets put a frowning intonation on the term “confessional poet”, as if airing one’s laundry after it has been washed is okay, but not before it is washed.

That said, Berryman did manage to haul down a Pulitzer and a National Book Award for Dream Songs, a collection of 100s of 18-line poems told about Henry his alter ego. Dream Song #7 in the Day Book is one of them. I find it wonderfully funny and refreshing.

And now, here’s his best poem of all. As many times as I have read an enjoyed it, it maintains its mystery:

The Ball Poem  

John Berryman                         

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.

Go Well and Stay Well,

Bhekaron

P.S. My friend Stephen writes to ask if I included the Word file for 22 October. Apparently, I did not. So, in the unlikely event you archive these things, here it is. (Thanks for the heads-up, SDR.)