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January 19, 2018
[There Ought to Be a Law Against Henry](
[Marianne Boruch](
given his showing up to teach at the U
disheveled, jittery cigarette and cigarette and probably
the drink, losing the very way there
over river, river of all song, all American story
which starts way north of St. Paul quiet or undone
wandering south, not
enraged mostly, something stranger.
Thatâs one epic shard of John Berryman anyway.
Notorious. And par for the course in a classroom
destined, struck-by-lightning
in sacred retrospect, the kind those long-ago students
now canât believe themselves
so accidentally chosen, grateful though one
probably claimed the poet absolutely
bonkers then, out of his tree toward the end,
so went the parlance. Wasnât he
always lateâGive them back, Weirdo!âwith those
brilliant papers they eked out, small dim-lit
hours when a big fat beer wouldâve
been nice. Really nice.
Fuck him, I hear that kid most definitely
blurting were he young right now
though the othersâ From the get-go their
startle and reverence. But not even that malcontent
did the damning I canât believe
they gave him tenure.
Hereâs where I think something else, think
of course itâs the Dream Songs that rattled him untilâ
as grandparents used to sayâhe couldnât
see straight. Like Dickinsonâs bits of shock and light
did her in between naps and those letters to
some vague beloved unattainable. Or Plath, her
meticulous crushing fog. Maybe closer to Milton working
his blindnessâliterally blind rage, if you want
to talk rageâinto pages soaked through with triumphant
failure and rhyme, always
that high orchestration, that alpha/omega big voice thing.
And Satan, after all, as wise guy
and looming because for chrissake, Jack, get an interesting
character in there! Someone must have
lobbed that right.
All along, Berryman: how those Dream Songs surely
loosened a bolt or a wheel in his orderly
scholar-head, must have come at him
like Michael the Archangel, 77 days of winged flash
searing him to genius, some kind of
whack-a-mole version. Maybe like Gabriel
cutting that starry celebrity deal
for a most dubious conception in the desert, near a fig tree,
no proper human mechanics required. At last
Berrymanâs rage wasnât rage
but sorrow turned back on itself. With teeth.
Henry my hero of crankiness and feigned indifference,
unspeakable industry, exhaustion
and grief, half funny-crazy, half who-knows-what-
that-line-means. A henry whole
universe of Henry, of
there ought to be a law against Henryâpause
and pauseâMister Bones: there is.
Will be! Was! Not to say poetryâs
worth it or the most healthy fascination for the sane.
Iâm just, I meanâis this love?
Thereâs break, as in lucky, as in
shatter. Thereâs smitten and thereâs smite.
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Copyright © 2018 Marianne Boruch. Used with permission of the author.
[illustration](
About This Poem
âOf course the title of this piece, âThere Ought to Be a Law against Henry,â is from John Berrymanâs 77 Dream Songs, a book Iâve cherished for years for its wit and invention and pure nerve. Recentlyâgiven that our national life seems to be unravelingâI am coming to understand the rage and unspeakable sorrow of those songs. This is a poem of gratitude, pure and simple.â
âMarianne Boruch
[Marianne Boruch. Photo credit: Will Dunlap.](
Marianne Boruchâs recent work includes a ninth book of poems, Eventually One Dreams the Real Thing (Copper Canyon Press, 2016), and a third essay collection about poetry, The Little Death of Self (University of Michigan Press, 2017). She teaches at Purdue University and in the low-residency MFA Program for Writers at Warren Wilson College. She lives in Indiana.
Photo credit: Will Dunlap
[more-at-poets](
[Eventually One Dreams the Real Thing](
Poetry by Boruch
[Eventually One Dreams the Real Thing](
(Copper Canyon Press, 2016)
"In Loving Memory of the Late Author of Dream Songs" by William Meredith
[read-more](
"Matrimonial Toast" by Ken White
[read-more](
"Dream Song 1" by John Berryman
[read-more](
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