Free The Heart Is Strange by John Berryman Page A

lessens. Kiss me.
    That once. As sings out up in sparkling dark
    a trail of a star & dies,
    while the breath flutters, sounding, mark,
    so shorn ought such caresses to us be
    who, deserving nothing, flush and flee
    the darkness of that light,
    a lurching frozen from a warm dream. Talk to me.
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    —it is Spring’s New England. Pussy willows wedge
    up in the wet. Milky crestings, fringed
    yellow, in heaven, eyed
    by the melting hand-in-hand or mere
    desirers single, heavy-footed, rapt,
    make surge poor human hearts. Venus is trapt—
    the hefty pike shifts, sheer—
    in Orion blazing. Warblings, odours, nudge to an edge—
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    —Ravishing, ha, what crouches outside ought,
    flamboyant, ill, angelic. Often, now,
    I am afraid of you.
    I am a sobersides; I know.
    I want to take you for my lover. —Do.
    —I hear a madness. Harmless I to you
    am not, not I? —No.
    —I cannot but be. Sing a concord of our thought.
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    —Wan dolls in indigo on gold: refrain
    my western lust. I am drowning in this past.
    I lose sight of you
    who mistress me from air. Unbraced
    in delirium of the grand depths, giving away
    haunters what kept me, I breathe solid spray.
    —I am losing you!
    Straiten me on. —I suffered living like a stain:
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    I trundle the bodies, on the iron bars,
    over that fire backward & forth; they burn;
    bits fall. I wonder if
    I killed them. Women serve my turn.
    —Dreams! You are good. —No. —Dense with hardihood
    the wicked are dislodged, and lodged the good.
    In green space we are safe.
    God awaits us (but I    am yielding) who Hell wars.
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    —I cannot feel myself God waits. He flies
    nearer a kindly world; or he is flown.
    One Saturday’s rescue
    won’t show. Man is entirely alone
    may be. I am a man of griefs & fits
    trying to be my friend. And the brown smock splits,
    down the pale flesh a gash
    broadens and Time holds up your heart against my eyes.
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    —Hard and divided heaven! creases me. Shame
    is failing. My breath is scented, and I throw
    hostile glances towards God.
    Crumpling plunge of a pestle, bray:
    sin cross & opposite, wherein I survive
    nightmares of Eden. Reaches foul & live
    he for me, this soul
    to crunch, a minute tangle of eternal flame.
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    I fear Hell’s hammer-wind. But fear does not wane.
    Death’s blossoms grain my hair; I cannot live.
    A black joy clashes
    joy, in twilight. The Devil said
    ‘I will deal toward her softly, and her enchanting cries
    will fool the horns of Adam.’ Father of lies,
    a male great pestle smashes
    small women swarming towards the mortar’s rim in vain.
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    I see the cruel spread Wings black with saints!
    Silky my breasts not his, mine, mine, to withhold
    or tender, tender.
    I am sifting, nervous, and bold.
    The light is changing. Surrender this loveliness
    you cannot make me do. But I will. Yes.
    What horror, down stormy air,
    warps towards me? My threatening promise faints—
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    torture me, Father, lest not I be thine!
    Tribunal terrible & pure, my God,
    mercy for him and me.
    Faces half-fanged, Christ drives abroad,
    and though the crop hopes, Jane is so slipshod
    I cry. Evil dissolves, & love, like foam;
    that love. Prattle of children powers me home,
    my heart claps like the swan’s
    under a frenzy of who love me & who shine.
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    As a canoe slides by on one strong stroke
    hope his hélp not I, who do hardly bear
    his gift still. But whisper
    I am not utterly. I pare
    an apple for my pipsqueak Mercy and
    she runs & all need naked apples, fanned
    their tinier envies.
    Vomitings, trots, rashes. Can be hope a cloak?
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    for the man with cropt ears glares. My fingers tighten
    my skirt. I pass. Alas! I pity all.
    Shy, shy, with mé, Dorothy.
    Moonrise, and frightening hoots. ‘Mother,
    how long will I be dead?’ Our friend the owl
    vanishes, darling, but your homing soul
    retires on Heaven, Mercy:
    not we one instant die, only our dark does lighten.
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    When by me in the dusk my child sits down
    I am myself. Simon, if it’s that