David Berman is an American poet, cartoonist, and singer-songwriter best known for his work with indie-rock band the Silver Jews.
David Berman was born January 4, 1967 in Williamsburg, Virginia. He attended high school at Greenhill School in Addison, Texas, before matriculating at the University of Virginia. While in Charlottesville, Virginia, Berman began writing and performing songs (often left on friends' voice message machines) with his loose band, Ectoslavia, primarily composed of UVA classmates Stephen Malkmus and Bob Nastanovich.
Upon graduation from the University of Virginia, the trio moved to Hoboken, New Jersey, where they shared an ... more »
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David Berman Poems
Self-Portrait At 28
I know it's a bad title but I'm giving it to myself as a gift on a day nearly canceled by sunlight when the entire hill is approaching
The Charm Of 5:30
It's too nice a day to read a novel set in England. We're within inches of the perfect distance from the sun, the sky is blueberries and cream,
She woke me up at dawn, her suitcase like a little brown dog at her heels. I sat up and looked out the window
Walking through a field with my little brother Seth I pointed to a place where kids had made angels in the snow. For some reason, I told him that a troop of angels
Governors On Sominex
It had been four days of no weather as if nature had conceded its genius to the indoors. They'd closed down the Bureau of Sad Endings
And the Others
Some find The Light in literature; Others in fine art, And some persist in being sure The Light shines in the heart.
A web of sewer, pipe, and wire connects each house to the others. In 206 a dog sleeps by the stove where a small gas leak causes him to have visions; visions that are rooted in nothing but gas.
As one who, reading late into the night, When overcome by sleep, turns off the light And yields whatever he can sense by sight
The Broken Mirror
My life is almost over; that's a fact Statistically derived but simply true; I look into the mirror, but it's cracked
Where did you go, my dear, my day; Where, oh where, did you go? To market, to maker of market, to say Too much of the little I know.
End of the Cruise
Ready to disembark, We're mostly puff and grey. Who else can sail this ark? Who else afford such play?
Coincidence. Perhaps coincidence Explains it all. Why look far out, in deep For mystical solutions to make sense Of how a dream disturbed more than my sleep—
When dreams have turned to dust and dust to slime; When all you ever were or hoped to be Appears as no more than a jest of time, A foolish jest, a tasteless parody
Catallus CX - A Translation
Alfie, honest mistresses are lauded; The presents they receive they earn, but you, Who lead me on with lies, leave me defrauded. My anti-mistress, brazen what you do;
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
Self-Portrait At 28
I know it's a bad title
but I'm giving it to myself as a gift
on a day nearly canceled by sunlight
when the entire hill is approaching
the ideal of Virginia
brochured with goldenrod and loblolly
and I think "at least I have not woken up
with a bloody knife in my hand"
by then having absently wandered
one hundred yards from the house
while still seated in this chair
with my eyes closed.
It is a certain hill
the one I imagine when I hear the word "hill"
and if the apocalypse turns out
to be a world-wide nervous breakdown
if our five billion ...