Brooding rather on birthdays,
for he ages & she has one; bruiting,
these are proceedings of earth’s
circling only, wherefore mirthdays?
Saints’ days, name-days, yes,
but these ought to be dull earth’s days
Saints’ days, name-days,
from the I’m I of childhood when
air-cover came, when
arrived what we mutter when identity frays
or shies, he touches her name like a kiss,
those would be blowing & leafier than this.
The Cloth of Gold? He remembers he had to wait:
she came. How has she to be reminded or tolled
to relish an uncoiling suicidal earth?
A birthday would be to celebrate
an almost dying of something strong savage & old
and of something hard sad glad & new they hope an almost birth.
“Only Sing: 152 Uncollected Dream Songs” by John Berryman (1914-1972), edited by Shane McCrea, is published by Faber & Faber
[Further reading: NS Poem: Fauna]
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This article appears in the 12 Dec 2025 issue of the New Statesman, All Alone: Christmas Special 2025