DREAM SONG 133
John BerrymanAs he grew famous - ah, but what is fame? -
he lost his old obsession with his name,
things seemed to matter less,
including the fame - a television team came
from another country to make a film of him
which did not him distress:
he enjoyed the hard work & he was good at that,
so they all said - the charming Englishmen
among the camera & the lights
mathematically wandered in his pub & livingroom
doing their duty, as too he did it,
but where are the delights
of long-for fame, unless fame makes him feel easy?
I am cold & weary, said Henry, fame makes me feel lazy,
yet I must do my best.
It doesn't matter, truly. It doesn't matter truly.
It seems to be solely a matter of continuing Henry
voicing & obsessed.
DREAM SONG 159
Panic and shock, together. They are all going away. Henry took down his black four-in-hand & his black bowtie and put away all other ties. It is a pleasant Sunday summer afternoon, I have been sick five times. Can I go on? I am a half-closed book.
Exalted figures passed before Henry's eyes, passed & withdrew. Retaining his faculties barely, his trajectory, his heart still beating in his empty breast, he hollow-hearted waved to them going by & out of sight.
I feel a final chill. This is cold sweat that will not leave me now. Maybe it's time to throw in my own hand. But there are secrets, secrets, I may yet - hidden in history & theology, hidden in rhyme - come on to understand.