and offered the master a fag, which
he took,
accepting too a light
to Henry’s lasting honour. Time
abates.
Humourless, grand, by the great
fire for a look
he set out his death in twilight.
The goddamned scones came hot.
He coughed with his sphincter,
when it hurt
Henry, who now that fierceness
imitates.
Empires fall, arise semi-states,
Kleenex improves, clings to its
own our dirt
the foul same. The last of the
girls had gone
half in despair on.
He starved & flung him on ‘em.
Fat then, free,
he make a lukewarm wooer. All
this hell of flesh—
not so bulk’, after all—
keeps him from edge, as forever
he will be—
how rottenly the prize collapse
from fresh—
a taller man than, we thought,
tall.
In the spring of 1937, Berryman,
then 22, was in Dublin, so he decided to look for William Butler Yeats. Yeats
happened to be in London and found out about it. He sent B. a note inviting him
to London for tea next day, though he could only spare an hour from 4 to 5. B.
took a train and boat to London, which of course he would do. He met Dylan
Thomas beforehand, who got him drunk before the appointment with Yeats, but B.
took a cold shower and sobered up. Yeats was 71and would die two years later.
So the great Nobel Prize-winning modernist poet had tea with the budding young confessional
poet. B. lit his cigarette for him and never forgot it. Yeats was not in good
health, and now B. looks back and sees himself in the same twilight state of
health, enduring the same fierce coughing fits (we now know very well what cigarettes
do to the body): “Empires fall, arise semi-states.” Exactly. Young Bill Clinton
once shook hands with President John F. Kennedy.
This poem takes a strange turn.
The tea with Yeats would be immensely important, and there’s an almost
apocryphal significance to it. But memories of coughing fits from the ill Yeats
turn B.’s attention to the frailty of his own ill body, Kleenex and snot, and
from there to sex and the fact that his philandering days are forever over. So
what’s more important here? When your body is failing, you pay attention to
your body. Pain trumps your brush with history.
I don’t think it’s one of the
great Dream Songs, it’s not even a really good one, but it’s still interesting in
that as much as any of them, it addresses how important, how mentally consuming
is awareness of the body and one’s physical health. We’ve all heard our uncles
and grandparents tell us, “When you’ve got your health, you’ve got everything.”
That’s not true, exactly. We might be broke, destitute, heartbroken, anguished,
victimized, incarcerated, depressed, or totally confused, and still be in the
pink of physical health. What Uncle means is that health is the foundation of
our potential for happiness. It won’t make you happy. There are ways to deal
with pain and loss of health, but for many of us, the non-self-actualized, lack of health will make you unhappy, or at least make you start
thinking about who you are, what you’ve done, and what your death will mean.
For B., whose immortal reputation, for whatever it was worth, was established—check
that off the list—it now mainly meant that he wasn’t getting laid any longer. A
physically washed up old guy with a dense white beard, booze on his breath, and
a deep, hacking cough? Famous or not, he ain’t the sexiest guy in the bar, let’s
face it. Only—if I could have tea with him, or light his cigarette, or sleep
with his reputation—well, that might be a story worth telling some day. But he’s
past even that. Like so many of the later Dream Songs, despair fumes out of it
like smoke off a cigarette. It puts me in mind of the last work written by Mark
Twain. After a literary career imagining the boyish adventures of Tom Sawyer,
the wit and humor of a California jumping frog and a blue jay determined to
fill a hole in a cabin roof with acorns, the great—great—Huckleberry Finn, Twain ended up writing horrifying,
suffocating stories about Satan’s role on earth and the utter, self-imposed degradation
of the damned human race. Twain’s late work, written from the dregs of a bitter
depression, is as hard to swallow in its way as Naked Lunch, which Burroughs wrote from the dregs of heroin
addiction, or Malcolm Lowry’s Under the
Volcano, written from the dregs of a fatal alcohol addiction. Throw in
cigarettes and the mix is toxic, and the literature written from a place like
that is toxic too, unless we read it as personal warning, or more broadly, as a
metaphor for something like late industrial capitalism’s addiction to money,
consumerism, war, and oil. If the metaphor holds, we can expect similar
societal and environmental outcomes. If we’re paying attention, we will see that
the frailty and ill health are real, and they’re growing: the whole Earth is
developing a deep, hacking cough.
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