What do you think?
Rate this book
Slouching Toward Nirvana: New Poems
Charles Bukowski is one of America's best-known contemporary writers of poetry and prose, and, many would claim, its most influential and imitated poet. He was born in Andernach, Germany, to an American soldier father and a German mother in 1920, and brought to the United States at the age of three. He was raised in Los Angeles and lived there for fifty years. He published his first story in 1944 when he was twenty-four and began writing poetry at the age of thirty-five. He died in San Pedro, California, on March 9, 1994, at the age of seventy-three, shortly after completing his last novel, Pulp (1994). During his lifetime Bukowski published more than forty-five books of poetry and prose, including the novels Post Office (1971), Factotum (1975), Women (1978), Ham on Rye (1982), and Hollywood (1989). Among his most recent books are the posthumous editions of What Matters Most Is How Well You Walk Through the Fire: New Poems (1999), Open All Night: New Poems (2000), The Night Torn Mad with Footsteps: New Poems (2001), Sifting through the madness for the Word, the line, the way: New Poems (2003), and The Flash of Lightning Behind the Mountain: New Poems (2004). All of his books have now been published in translation in more than a dozen languages, and his worldwide popularity remains undiminished. In the years to come Ecco will publish additional volumes of previously uncollected poetry and prose.
273 pages, Hardcover
First published January 1, 2005
91 people are currently reading
2197 people want to read
About the author
Charles Bukowski
847 books29.7k followersHenry Charles Bukowski (born as Heinrich Karl Bukowski) was a German-born American poet, novelist and short story writer. His writing was influenced by the social, cultural and economic ambience of his home city of Los Angeles.It is marked by an emphasis on the ordinary lives of poor Americans, the act of writing, alcohol, relationships with women and the drudgery of work. Bukowski wrote thousands of poems, hundreds of short stories and six novels, eventually publishing over sixty books
Charles Bukowski was the only child of an American soldier and a German mother. At the age of three, he came with his family to the United States and grew up in Los Angeles. He attended Los Angeles City College from 1939 to 1941, then left school and moved to New York City to become a writer. His lack of publishing success at this time caused him to give up writing in 1946 and spurred a ten-year stint of heavy drinking. After he developed a bleeding ulcer, he decided to take up writing again. He worked a wide range of jobs to support his writing, including dishwasher, truck driver and loader, mail carrier, guard, gas station attendant, stock boy, warehouse worker, shipping clerk, post office clerk, parking lot attendant, Red Cross orderly, and elevator operator. He also worked in a dog biscuit factory, a slaughterhouse, a cake and cookie factory, and he hung posters in New York City subways.
Bukowski published his first story when he was twenty-four and began writing poetry at the age of thirty-five. His first book of poetry was published in 1959; he went on to publish more than forty-five books of poetry and prose, including Pulp (1994), Screams from the Balcony (1993), and The Last Night of the Earth Poems (1992).
He died of leukemia in San Pedro on March 9, 1994.
Charles Bukowski was the only child of an American soldier and a German mother. At the age of three, he came with his family to the United States and grew up in Los Angeles. He attended Los Angeles City College from 1939 to 1941, then left school and moved to New York City to become a writer. His lack of publishing success at this time caused him to give up writing in 1946 and spurred a ten-year stint of heavy drinking. After he developed a bleeding ulcer, he decided to take up writing again. He worked a wide range of jobs to support his writing, including dishwasher, truck driver and loader, mail carrier, guard, gas station attendant, stock boy, warehouse worker, shipping clerk, post office clerk, parking lot attendant, Red Cross orderly, and elevator operator. He also worked in a dog biscuit factory, a slaughterhouse, a cake and cookie factory, and he hung posters in New York City subways.
Bukowski published his first story when he was twenty-four and began writing poetry at the age of thirty-five. His first book of poetry was published in 1959; he went on to publish more than forty-five books of poetry and prose, including Pulp (1994), Screams from the Balcony (1993), and The Last Night of the Earth Poems (1992).
He died of leukemia in San Pedro on March 9, 1994.
Ratings & Reviews
Friends & Following
Create a free account to discover what your friends think of this book!
Community Reviews
Displaying 1 - 30 of 149 reviews
June 4, 2012
I've counted the ways I love Bukowski in previous reviews aplenty so let’s amble slowly toward why I love this specific posthumous collection.
Bukowski nearing life’s end zone is the celebrity I’d go to dinner with in that one hypothetical exercise. Seeing him, mainly through the lens of his writings with a few supplemental perspectives of movie adaptations, biographical sources and the rare treat of a filmed poetry reading, through the decades and how the suicidally volatile drunk becomes a casually disgruntled older guy whose patience for bullshit is as hearty as his aged-beyond-its-years liver is just a fascinating character study. Brutal, unflinching honesty is the constant force that propels the staggering poet through volume after volume of novels, poems, short stories and raving observations, and it’s an honesty that proves Bukowski is far braver than his legendary drunkenness implies.
He’s still writing about racetracks but it’s nostalgic now, like he goes to remember what it was like to be that desperate, to cling to his bets like a liferaft. There’s a sheepishness in his tone now, as if he knows that his scraps of fame (which he alludes to with convincing amusement) render his former worries obsolete and to write about them would be unforgivably artificial, and he mirrors the inevitable change in his lifestyle with a natural shift in his writing: Bukowski was strutting his taste for irony both before it was cool and better than anyone since.
There's something laid-back and (dare I say) almost upbeat in this collection that's unusual for Bukowski; it's unusual but neither an insincere nor unwelcome deviation from the hot-blooded output of the poet's earlier days. He explores unexpected terrain -- a visit to the beach, a young girl at the dentist -- and offers up tales of lives that are much sadder than his with a poignancy that screams of learned understanding.
For as hesitantly optimistic as this collection could be, there is a resonating sadness to be found in it. Buk himself seems content as long as he's writing -- much of his youthful anger seemed to stem from not being able to write for one reason or another -- but is sad for humanity. He's put the whole of himself on display through his writing, leaving him with nothing left to hide his lesser qualities behind. It seemed like he pitied those who chose to wander through life with their eyes closed.
Bukowski blends those opposing forces of peaceful contentment with his own path and empathetic sorrow for everyone else to much success. I alternately laughed out loud at some of these poems while I'd reread stanzas in others no less than 10 times to make sure that someone else, even if for a few fleeting seconds, understands that there's beauty to be found even when an entire world is collapsing.
Bukowski nearing life’s end zone is the celebrity I’d go to dinner with in that one hypothetical exercise. Seeing him, mainly through the lens of his writings with a few supplemental perspectives of movie adaptations, biographical sources and the rare treat of a filmed poetry reading, through the decades and how the suicidally volatile drunk becomes a casually disgruntled older guy whose patience for bullshit is as hearty as his aged-beyond-its-years liver is just a fascinating character study. Brutal, unflinching honesty is the constant force that propels the staggering poet through volume after volume of novels, poems, short stories and raving observations, and it’s an honesty that proves Bukowski is far braver than his legendary drunkenness implies.
He’s still writing about racetracks but it’s nostalgic now, like he goes to remember what it was like to be that desperate, to cling to his bets like a liferaft. There’s a sheepishness in his tone now, as if he knows that his scraps of fame (which he alludes to with convincing amusement) render his former worries obsolete and to write about them would be unforgivably artificial, and he mirrors the inevitable change in his lifestyle with a natural shift in his writing: Bukowski was strutting his taste for irony both before it was cool and better than anyone since.
There's something laid-back and (dare I say) almost upbeat in this collection that's unusual for Bukowski; it's unusual but neither an insincere nor unwelcome deviation from the hot-blooded output of the poet's earlier days. He explores unexpected terrain -- a visit to the beach, a young girl at the dentist -- and offers up tales of lives that are much sadder than his with a poignancy that screams of learned understanding.
For as hesitantly optimistic as this collection could be, there is a resonating sadness to be found in it. Buk himself seems content as long as he's writing -- much of his youthful anger seemed to stem from not being able to write for one reason or another -- but is sad for humanity. He's put the whole of himself on display through his writing, leaving him with nothing left to hide his lesser qualities behind. It seemed like he pitied those who chose to wander through life with their eyes closed.
Bukowski blends those opposing forces of peaceful contentment with his own path and empathetic sorrow for everyone else to much success. I alternately laughed out loud at some of these poems while I'd reread stanzas in others no less than 10 times to make sure that someone else, even if for a few fleeting seconds, understands that there's beauty to be found even when an entire world is collapsing.
June 10, 2017
I really struggled with the rating. The fact is that some of these posthumously released poems were kept from the public by Bukowski for a reason. They read as second or third rate attempts. There is no doubt that Bukowski was extremely prolific, but that also means that some of his work never was meant to see the light of day. Several of these books of "New Poems" have nevertheless been fantastic. This unfortunately was not one of them. I also found it a bit disorienting that the poems were really widely scattered in time. I hate giving such a low rating to a book by Bukowski, but go read some of the poems published while he was still alive.
December 24, 2016
Best book of poetry I have read. Period. One of those you want to keep nearby, and when the melancholy or the disbelief in yourself as a writer strikes you, pick it up and open it at a random page and read and feel better and chuckle and get back to writing.
May 18, 2021
I give this book 2.5 stars because there were some very good poems in there but there were also way too many egocentric, misogynistic, racist ones. On one hand it's clear he writes because that's what drives him and he is very passionate about what he does, and that what he says is truly what he is thinking, but on the other hand he comes across as kind of a horrible human being for those same reasons. There are a lot of uses of the word "whore" and references to sleeping with women and treating them badly, though he also plays the victim most of the time, and one in particular where he goes on about how great he was to be with and how no woman ever got over him and how it was hard for them to live without him, which might have been tongue-in-cheek but I kind of think he was serious.
The third and fourth parts of the book were a lot better than the first and second parts, because he really tones down the misogyny and gets more into being over seventy years old and looking back on his life and what it feels like to have gone from who he was before to who he is in the present. The parts I liked about the book were the parts I found relatable, where he was just writing plainly about how he felt being alive and how it felt to be in the world. I had a hard time relating to all his stuff about the horse races, gambling, booze, and women. There were also some very funny poems about being such a well-renowned writer and I did find his dislike for the literary community both distasteful and sort of refreshing in its candidness - he definitely doesn't put on airs. I wouldn't recommend this book really but it was useful to see Bukowski's style and get a sense of who he was as a person, especially later on in his life.
The third and fourth parts of the book were a lot better than the first and second parts, because he really tones down the misogyny and gets more into being over seventy years old and looking back on his life and what it feels like to have gone from who he was before to who he is in the present. The parts I liked about the book were the parts I found relatable, where he was just writing plainly about how he felt being alive and how it felt to be in the world. I had a hard time relating to all his stuff about the horse races, gambling, booze, and women. There were also some very funny poems about being such a well-renowned writer and I did find his dislike for the literary community both distasteful and sort of refreshing in its candidness - he definitely doesn't put on airs. I wouldn't recommend this book really but it was useful to see Bukowski's style and get a sense of who he was as a person, especially later on in his life.
August 27, 2021
Sometimes just street chatter or bar talk, other times a sedulous take on the day's racing card, and always the folly of humanity in every fold. Old now, these Bukowski poems speak the author's oath to thine pen be true, all else fudge closely. He made his way and had his say ponies be damned.
March 15, 2012
Slouching Toward Nirvana is my first foray into the strange nihilistic and unpretentious world of author Charles Bukowski. In his poem called, "the curse," he writes of the unfortunate consequences of fame—the ultimate fragility of Tolstoy, Henry Miller, Hemingway, Celine, Ezra Pound, Hamsun, Ambrose Pierce and van Gogh. He ends with: "we are hardly ever / as strong / as that which we / create." In a long poem called "The Tide," he writes: "most of what we learn / in this crazy life is /what to avoid...like, say, / a fancy ending / to this poem." A sense of humor here.
What is most interesting is the man himself—his anti-lit reputation, his popularity, his easy narrative style, and his rage. A number of his books have been published since his death in 1994. And after tasting this one, I am spurred to read more. A review of Slouching Toward Nirvana by Matthew Firth , written in 2005, is illuminating. It gives a good account of the man.
And I like his headstone: "Don't try." http://www.laurahird.com/newreview/sl...
What is most interesting is the man himself—his anti-lit reputation, his popularity, his easy narrative style, and his rage. A number of his books have been published since his death in 1994. And after tasting this one, I am spurred to read more. A review of Slouching Toward Nirvana by Matthew Firth , written in 2005, is illuminating. It gives a good account of the man.
And I like his headstone: "Don't try." http://www.laurahird.com/newreview/sl...
April 15, 2009
By this point, his umpteenth book of poetry published since his death in 1994, there is little else for Bukowski to say. I didn't particularly enjoy sifting through 6 or 7 turds for every good poem in this collection.
August 4, 2017
So what if it's sometimes crude, pessimistic, embittered, doused in alcohol and often set in or about or thinking about a race track. Bukowski offers no apologies and if you're a fan of his writing, non are needed. As per usual, it must be said, this isn't poetry for everyone. And this isn't said in that style where it says whoever reads it is special because they "get it." Nope. Bukowski is like a dick joke with emotions. Either you like it and your heart chuckles, or you don't. No harm, no fowl.
As usual, his poem structure is all over the place and begs the question about how intentional and how arbitrary it all is. But going back to the joke analogy, although some poems are impactful from start to end, Bukowski has the tendency to set you up throughout an entire poem for that final line. Four out of five times there's a reward for reading that leaves you reeling a bit and as a reader, I like that.
I like that his writing captures a bitter bastard who could still glean beauty from the crass and mundane. Often times I'd raise my eyebrows and say "wow" at some inappropriate line followed by being moved by another verse.
In short, a collection that won't win him any new fans but will most certainly win him more imitators. Alas, nothing like the original.
As usual, his poem structure is all over the place and begs the question about how intentional and how arbitrary it all is. But going back to the joke analogy, although some poems are impactful from start to end, Bukowski has the tendency to set you up throughout an entire poem for that final line. Four out of five times there's a reward for reading that leaves you reeling a bit and as a reader, I like that.
I like that his writing captures a bitter bastard who could still glean beauty from the crass and mundane. Often times I'd raise my eyebrows and say "wow" at some inappropriate line followed by being moved by another verse.
In short, a collection that won't win him any new fans but will most certainly win him more imitators. Alas, nothing like the original.
May 3, 2024
Like a shot of rotgut whisky. A life in high-definition. Warts and all.
Charles Bukowski's style might be likened to a shot of rotgut whisky. Sometimes it burns, sometimes it makes you sick, sometimes it's exactly what you need.
He has been called one of the most imitated writers of the 20th century, and that's both good and bad. It's good when its authentic and the writer cuts through the bullshit, it's bad when Instagram/TikTok poets start to take the fire that burned on every page and turn it into their version of daily white girl affirmations (ex: "She whispered: I am the storm").
Thankfully, Bukowski was prolific until the very end, so there have been multiple posthumous poetry collections, including 2005's "Slouching Toward Nirvana." This is a very strong collection that shows CB still his own worst critic, still wondering if his writing is worth a damn, still getting hangovers at 70, and still feeling that Los Angeles sun shine down, all while recognizing (though not struggling with) his own mortality.
There's a merciful absence of the scatological here, and the collection is stronger for it. That's my one persistent critique of CB -- while his style lends itself to hard and sometimes uncomfortable lines, he loses me when he goes on too long about taking violent dumps. That doesn't happen here, thankfully.
At the end, "Slouching Toward Nirvana" is a fine addition for any Bukowski fan (or imitator).
Charles Bukowski's style might be likened to a shot of rotgut whisky. Sometimes it burns, sometimes it makes you sick, sometimes it's exactly what you need.
He has been called one of the most imitated writers of the 20th century, and that's both good and bad. It's good when its authentic and the writer cuts through the bullshit, it's bad when Instagram/TikTok poets start to take the fire that burned on every page and turn it into their version of daily white girl affirmations (ex: "She whispered: I am the storm").
Thankfully, Bukowski was prolific until the very end, so there have been multiple posthumous poetry collections, including 2005's "Slouching Toward Nirvana." This is a very strong collection that shows CB still his own worst critic, still wondering if his writing is worth a damn, still getting hangovers at 70, and still feeling that Los Angeles sun shine down, all while recognizing (though not struggling with) his own mortality.
There's a merciful absence of the scatological here, and the collection is stronger for it. That's my one persistent critique of CB -- while his style lends itself to hard and sometimes uncomfortable lines, he loses me when he goes on too long about taking violent dumps. That doesn't happen here, thankfully.
At the end, "Slouching Toward Nirvana" is a fine addition for any Bukowski fan (or imitator).
January 4, 2024
Love the whole shabang; Bukowski delivers.
from 'disorder and early sorrow':
the forgotten dead,
a fly,
the bartender’s shirt,
voices emanating from those sitting nearby,
the smell of urine from the crapper,
the sound of passing automobiles,
somebody laughing,
my trembling hand lighting a first cigarette.
nothing to do then but get
drunk again.
and from 'I am a mole':
in the good old days
people just assumed that I
was crazy. life was simple then.
all I need now is what I needed then: a desk lamp,
the typer, the bottle, the radio, classical
music, and this room
on fire.
from 'disorder and early sorrow':
the forgotten dead,
a fly,
the bartender’s shirt,
voices emanating from those sitting nearby,
the smell of urine from the crapper,
the sound of passing automobiles,
somebody laughing,
my trembling hand lighting a first cigarette.
nothing to do then but get
drunk again.
and from 'I am a mole':
in the good old days
people just assumed that I
was crazy. life was simple then.
all I need now is what I needed then: a desk lamp,
the typer, the bottle, the radio, classical
music, and this room
on fire.
March 19, 2023
That was such a DAMN GOOD COLLECTION!!!!
Now this is my favourite collection along with Sifting through the Madness. Both tied in first place 🥲
(I’ve read 10+ Bukowski poetry books already)
Now this is my favourite collection along with Sifting through the Madness. Both tied in first place 🥲
(I’ve read 10+ Bukowski poetry books already)
December 2, 2023
6.25/10
December 29, 2024
Bitter old man poetry with a few scattered gems. I wish I could give this one a better rating.
June 22, 2011
Look at Jenn's review. I essentially agree with everything she wrote (excepting the list of favorites), so no need to restate it.
Some of what Bukowski wrote here is really, really good. Some of it looks like he just jotted down some thoughts for a poem and stuffed them into a drawer to work on later, then his posthumous editors grabbed them and published them. If it was the editors' fault, and they were never intended by the author to be ready for publishing, well, that's what you get with a posthumous collection. However, if it was Bukowski's fault, and he thought of those poems as being ready, then I think he had settled too far into his late success and was taking the readers for granted.
All in all, I doubt he gave a damn.
However, one of the things that did strike me in this late collection was that his earlier unvarnished lack of pretension had given way in certain places to being a bit too full of himself. But, then again, maybe that's just what some people love about the B.
All of that said, there are some really, really good poems here - worth reading and contemplating. Here's one called "poem for my 70th birthday". The brutal honesty in this poem produces first slow, shallow breathing, and then a sigh; at least it did for me. The last two stanzas are masterful in their plain symbolism and reflective insight:
it no longer matters that the waves break on the
shore or that young girls dream and sigh.
only the next moment counts
and the next after that.
I've got to prepare myself for death: look,
there he was, now he's gone.
I think of the young man who wanted so
badly to die
and of the old man now who doesn't care whether he
does or doesn't.
the latter is best
but there is no wisdom attached.
Mahler sings for me tonight.
and this is a great cigar.
and my friend, the typewriter, sits to my left.
the dogs of night bark at something they can't
see.
they too are alert
and waiting.
______________________
I don't believe the choice of Mahler was incidental. Bukowski loved Mahler, but in this case Mahler fits perfectly. He was controversial during his life for changing religions just to obtain a job post that he wanted, a cavalier attitude toward religion that Bukowski seemed to share. Also, Mahler's work as a composer went through a period where he was ignored to some degree, somewhat like Bukowski. His work pushed the edges of composing into the modern style; Bukowski's work also opened up new dimensions of what it means to be an honest and contemporary writer.
All in all, this is a thoughtful poem from a writer who could be thoughtful when he wanted, and casual in a tortured way when he just settled into his life experience. All in all, this book is worth reading because, here and there throughout, there are some poems that are truly like fine cigars, poems that help us understand things about life in a way that only Mr."Chinaski" can deliver.
Some of what Bukowski wrote here is really, really good. Some of it looks like he just jotted down some thoughts for a poem and stuffed them into a drawer to work on later, then his posthumous editors grabbed them and published them. If it was the editors' fault, and they were never intended by the author to be ready for publishing, well, that's what you get with a posthumous collection. However, if it was Bukowski's fault, and he thought of those poems as being ready, then I think he had settled too far into his late success and was taking the readers for granted.
All in all, I doubt he gave a damn.
However, one of the things that did strike me in this late collection was that his earlier unvarnished lack of pretension had given way in certain places to being a bit too full of himself. But, then again, maybe that's just what some people love about the B.
All of that said, there are some really, really good poems here - worth reading and contemplating. Here's one called "poem for my 70th birthday". The brutal honesty in this poem produces first slow, shallow breathing, and then a sigh; at least it did for me. The last two stanzas are masterful in their plain symbolism and reflective insight:
it no longer matters that the waves break on the
shore or that young girls dream and sigh.
only the next moment counts
and the next after that.
I've got to prepare myself for death: look,
there he was, now he's gone.
I think of the young man who wanted so
badly to die
and of the old man now who doesn't care whether he
does or doesn't.
the latter is best
but there is no wisdom attached.
Mahler sings for me tonight.
and this is a great cigar.
and my friend, the typewriter, sits to my left.
the dogs of night bark at something they can't
see.
they too are alert
and waiting.
______________________
I don't believe the choice of Mahler was incidental. Bukowski loved Mahler, but in this case Mahler fits perfectly. He was controversial during his life for changing religions just to obtain a job post that he wanted, a cavalier attitude toward religion that Bukowski seemed to share. Also, Mahler's work as a composer went through a period where he was ignored to some degree, somewhat like Bukowski. His work pushed the edges of composing into the modern style; Bukowski's work also opened up new dimensions of what it means to be an honest and contemporary writer.
All in all, this is a thoughtful poem from a writer who could be thoughtful when he wanted, and casual in a tortured way when he just settled into his life experience. All in all, this book is worth reading because, here and there throughout, there are some poems that are truly like fine cigars, poems that help us understand things about life in a way that only Mr."Chinaski" can deliver.
May 23, 2012
basic
the short poem
like the short life
may not be the best thing
but generally
it's
easier.
this is a short
poem at the end
of a
long
life
sitting here
looking at
you
now
then
saying
adios!
"the angry, the empty, the lonely, the
tricked.
we are all
museums of fears"
"fools turn other fools into idols.
the people waste their lives and their minds
sitting in the dark
as more and more movies ars made."
" theres time to weep
a time to die
and a time to live"
"regardless
the nights you fight best
are
when all the weapons are pointed
at you,
when all the voices
hurl their insults
while the dream is being
strangled.
the nights you fight best
are
when reason gets
kicked in the
gut,
when the chariots of
gloom
encircle
you.
the nights you fight best
are
when the laughter of fools
fills the
air,
when the kiss of death is
mistaken for
love.
the nights you fight best
are
when the game is
fixed,
when the crowd screams
for your
blood.
the nights you fight best
are
on a night like
this
as you chase a thousand
dark rats from
your brain,
as you rise up against the
impossible,
as you become a brother
to the tender sister
of joy and
move on
regardless."
"as long as the world
is full of so many
serious writers
I'll nerver have
insomnia."
JUST LOVVVVVVVVVVVVVE THIS MAN !!!
the short poem
like the short life
may not be the best thing
but generally
it's
easier.
this is a short
poem at the end
of a
long
life
sitting here
looking at
you
now
then
saying
adios!
"the angry, the empty, the lonely, the
tricked.
we are all
museums of fears"
"fools turn other fools into idols.
the people waste their lives and their minds
sitting in the dark
as more and more movies ars made."
" theres time to weep
a time to die
and a time to live"
"regardless
the nights you fight best
are
when all the weapons are pointed
at you,
when all the voices
hurl their insults
while the dream is being
strangled.
the nights you fight best
are
when reason gets
kicked in the
gut,
when the chariots of
gloom
encircle
you.
the nights you fight best
are
when the laughter of fools
fills the
air,
when the kiss of death is
mistaken for
love.
the nights you fight best
are
when the game is
fixed,
when the crowd screams
for your
blood.
the nights you fight best
are
on a night like
this
as you chase a thousand
dark rats from
your brain,
as you rise up against the
impossible,
as you become a brother
to the tender sister
of joy and
move on
regardless."
"as long as the world
is full of so many
serious writers
I'll nerver have
insomnia."
JUST LOVVVVVVVVVVVVVE THIS MAN !!!
November 24, 2008
New is never really new when it comes to Bukowski. Be that as it is, I continue to buy his books as soon as they hit the shelves. The imagery is a little updated, the cynicism is a little more harsh, and the wry sense of doom amidst all the happiness is still there. Dirty love, clean hate, answered paradoxes, and the like make up what Chuck covers in this edition of filthy poetry. I keep thinking I will grow out of this desire to read smut with an edge. So far, I haven't.
April 12, 2013
Cicada - Charles Bukowski
writers love to use the word
"cicada' in a poem.
it makes them believe that
they are there, that they
have done it.
every time I see this word
in a poem, I think, damn
it, haven't the editors
caught on yet?
that it's a con?
a way to milk the game?
and look at me:
here I'm using it:
"cicada."
well, that means that
this poem surely will get
published.
see?
it works.
writers love to use the word
"cicada' in a poem.
it makes them believe that
they are there, that they
have done it.
every time I see this word
in a poem, I think, damn
it, haven't the editors
caught on yet?
that it's a con?
a way to milk the game?
and look at me:
here I'm using it:
"cicada."
well, that means that
this poem surely will get
published.
see?
it works.
April 24, 2021
Slouching Toward Nirvana by Charles Bukowski (Harper Collins 2005)(811). This is another collection of posthumously-published poems by Charles Bukowski. My favorite in this set is the brilliant "Clothes Cost Money." Anyone who has ever observed someone being bullied and who failed to act will be shamed anew by this heartbreaking selection. My rating: 7/10, finished 5/9/14. 4/8/19 - changed rating to 7.5/10 on the strength of "Clothes Cost Money."
July 3, 2016
While I am happy this book exists and that I had the opportunity to read it, I can't say it was my most satisfactory read from Bukowski. That said, the final section of the book (part 4) was quite good, all of the poems seemingly written from the other side of 70. Good stuff and well worth the price of admission.
October 10, 2012
This is a keeper. I am crazy about him I keep his stuff on the downstairs shelves and re-read because each time there is stuff i never saw before. I read it all but it seems new each time. Few people know, Bukowski knows.
June 7, 2017
Charles Bukowski seems to suggest in these poems that it isn't alcohol, fighting, and gambling that kill a man, but the boredom that attends the ongoing pursuit of them. It's a wonder, then, that I survived the reading of Slouching Toward Nirvana, since the same deadly boredom seeps from the pages like the poisonous stale breath of a chronic inebriate.
For about three poems, the "I'm a drunk writer" schtick is mildly amusing and a little charming, but then you realize that all this guy is ever going to write about is being a drunk writer, and you wish he'd either knock off the bottle or himself and to hell with it.
What's worse, actually, is that it's not just the "I'm a drunk writer" schtick that Bukowski employs, it's the "I'm an old drunk writer" schtick. So instead of talking about barroom brawls and chasing women, he talks about how fat he's become and laments the passing of the glory days when he used to brawl in barrooms and chase women. The vodka haze isn't so much a vodka haze, then, as a sour belch passing between withered lips.
Or an incontinent fart expelled when the so-called poet rises from his seat to retrieve the wine bottle which he drinks from and then uses to scratch his flabby buttocks. An operation altogether more poetic than anything in this book.
Except the penultimate poem, "small talk." This poem is the reason the volume gets two stars instead of one. It's a scene in the poet's bedroom where he talks to Death, and it has more poignancy in its few spare lines than all the other poems in the book combined. Bukowski may be the stereotypical drunk, tortured writer, but if you don't want to be tortured by a drunk give this one a pass.
For about three poems, the "I'm a drunk writer" schtick is mildly amusing and a little charming, but then you realize that all this guy is ever going to write about is being a drunk writer, and you wish he'd either knock off the bottle or himself and to hell with it.
What's worse, actually, is that it's not just the "I'm a drunk writer" schtick that Bukowski employs, it's the "I'm an old drunk writer" schtick. So instead of talking about barroom brawls and chasing women, he talks about how fat he's become and laments the passing of the glory days when he used to brawl in barrooms and chase women. The vodka haze isn't so much a vodka haze, then, as a sour belch passing between withered lips.
Or an incontinent fart expelled when the so-called poet rises from his seat to retrieve the wine bottle which he drinks from and then uses to scratch his flabby buttocks. An operation altogether more poetic than anything in this book.
Except the penultimate poem, "small talk." This poem is the reason the volume gets two stars instead of one. It's a scene in the poet's bedroom where he talks to Death, and it has more poignancy in its few spare lines than all the other poems in the book combined. Bukowski may be the stereotypical drunk, tortured writer, but if you don't want to be tortured by a drunk give this one a pass.
February 17, 2025
As my introduction to Bukowski, this was a great place to start. His writing is poignant and acerbic, and shows that poetry is not all about sharing the segments of an orange with friends, taking the road less travelled in the woods or even admiring the mundane details of your local filling station. Sometimes good poems can come from the pub, the alleyways or the racetrack.
These poems were collected shortly before his death as a seventy-three year old who has been homeless, struggled as a writer and gave up, started again, mingled with women of the night and would not be unwelcoming towards his own demise. It gives a great insight into the juxtaposition between the rich and the poor, the rags and the riches, the fast horse and the not fast horses, life as it was and life as it has become.
My favourite poems in the collection include Making Do, The Poet, Picture Show, The Tide, To Hell and Back, and Then and Now. Really amazing work, and I can see why he is considered to be the most imitated American writer of all time - there's a sort of romanticism about the literary vagrant as a concept. The bum who is smart enough to know better but chooses his own path. An anarchistic stance against the powers that be. The drinking and the debauchery is great for the pineal gland, and it will make for a beautiful piece of work when it's in Times New Roman. But this sort of poetry can't be imitated. Not really. You can't have a formal education and write like this. You can't have two doting parents and write like this. You have to live it and write it from the trenches, and while the acclaim is appealing, the living of it is the problem.
"The strongest know that death is final, and the happiest are those gifted with the shortest journey."
These poems were collected shortly before his death as a seventy-three year old who has been homeless, struggled as a writer and gave up, started again, mingled with women of the night and would not be unwelcoming towards his own demise. It gives a great insight into the juxtaposition between the rich and the poor, the rags and the riches, the fast horse and the not fast horses, life as it was and life as it has become.
My favourite poems in the collection include Making Do, The Poet, Picture Show, The Tide, To Hell and Back, and Then and Now. Really amazing work, and I can see why he is considered to be the most imitated American writer of all time - there's a sort of romanticism about the literary vagrant as a concept. The bum who is smart enough to know better but chooses his own path. An anarchistic stance against the powers that be. The drinking and the debauchery is great for the pineal gland, and it will make for a beautiful piece of work when it's in Times New Roman. But this sort of poetry can't be imitated. Not really. You can't have a formal education and write like this. You can't have two doting parents and write like this. You have to live it and write it from the trenches, and while the acclaim is appealing, the living of it is the problem.
"The strongest know that death is final, and the happiest are those gifted with the shortest journey."
April 28, 2020
To begin with, know that this is a collection of previously unpublished works. Works that he had written later in his life... towards its end. Though the fire that once raged within Bukowski is still present, it has dimmed with age. The majority of the works are average. If you are a veteran Bukowski reader some of the works might even leave you with a "Haven't I read that poem before?" feeling. But... as it is Bukowski, you will suddenly stumble upon a poem that cuts to the quick. "To Hell and Back," "Somethings knocking at the door," "Regardless," and "Somebody else," are merely a few examples of these. With other poems it might be a stanza, a line, or merely the bon mot that might captivate. With some of the initial works in the book Bukowski does get a little experimental in his writing. If you have never read Bukowski, read this book... but don't stop there. If you are a veteran of Bukowski, read this work... but have no expectations.
July 12, 2023
"We are broken down bit by bit,
we
drain away by the minute, the hour, the week, the
month, the year, we
leak away
in cafés, backyards, stadiums, parking lots, in
parlors of chance, in movie houses, at church,
at clambakes,
we dissolve
we dissolve while
putting on our shoes, while
putting out the cat, while
turning out the light,
while clipping our toenails.
so we continually dissolve from substance to
shadow, endlessly
dissolve while listening
to bad music or in total silence,
forever dissolve
while reading old love letters and new books,
during peace and war,
on and off TV.
thus our lives dissolve and disappear between the helmet and
a high-heeled shoe, between an olive seed and a buried
corpse, between a lost key and the exposed film, between a
child’s smile and the magnolia’s scream."
we
drain away by the minute, the hour, the week, the
month, the year, we
leak away
in cafés, backyards, stadiums, parking lots, in
parlors of chance, in movie houses, at church,
at clambakes,
we dissolve
we dissolve while
putting on our shoes, while
putting out the cat, while
turning out the light,
while clipping our toenails.
so we continually dissolve from substance to
shadow, endlessly
dissolve while listening
to bad music or in total silence,
forever dissolve
while reading old love letters and new books,
during peace and war,
on and off TV.
thus our lives dissolve and disappear between the helmet and
a high-heeled shoe, between an olive seed and a buried
corpse, between a lost key and the exposed film, between a
child’s smile and the magnolia’s scream."
This entire review has been hidden because of spoilers.
January 30, 2020
I've only read Bukowski in tiny snippets, usually shared by a friend who had developed a fondness for his work. I figured it was about time I pick up one of his collections for myself. This particular one was released posthumously, more than a decade after Bukowski passed, and most of the poems in it had not been seen before. Many of the pieces are not actually poems, per se, rather short stories that are printed in the form of poetic verse, but they are all wonderful. I read through it quickly this first time, but want to go back through it and really try to absorb it. I'll be very happy to add more Bukowski to my bookshelf.
June 7, 2018
Say what you will about posthumous publications, but there is no denying he delivered powerful words until his dying day. Charles Bukowski was unorthodox, outrageous, nonchalant, but romantic. His dance with death in part four of this collection was beautiful, comforting and ripped my heart out all at once. Should this be your first introduction to Bukowski’s work? No, absolutely not. This one’s for the die-hards trying to come to terms with the fact that they’re running out of his words to sponge. This feels like a finale, a true “adios!”
November 5, 2018
My first Bukowski and I must say I was intrigued. He's vulgar, self-absorbed, and a diamond-in-the-rough sort of genius, if you don't mind me saying.
Many of these poems have clear problems, and its not surprising why they weren't published in Bukowski's lifetime, but regardless there's something about his poetry that leaves a lasting impression in my mind. He's an old grouch, but he's memorable. And really I just love how easy his poems are to read: easy to read, enjoyable (if you're not to PC and okay with some self-absorbed nonsense/anger), and powerful in a strange sort of way.
Many of these poems have clear problems, and its not surprising why they weren't published in Bukowski's lifetime, but regardless there's something about his poetry that leaves a lasting impression in my mind. He's an old grouch, but he's memorable. And really I just love how easy his poems are to read: easy to read, enjoyable (if you're not to PC and okay with some self-absorbed nonsense/anger), and powerful in a strange sort of way.
July 22, 2023
This is my first Bukowski and I'm still thinking about how I felt about it (which for poetry I'd assume is a plus). Much of his writing is reminiscent to the beats, but then again, it's more modern than that. Some have twinges of Henry Miller, and some have Hemingway flair, but they all are distinctly different. I waffled between loving one poem and hating the next. Bukowski is by turns an honest voyeur and a misogynist dick, but there were such bright moments in the whole thing that I'll absolutely be coming back for more.
April 14, 2024
It's a book of Bukowski poems, so if that's your thing, you'll find much to enjoy. However, this isn't one of his better collections, in my view. A lot of Bukowski's work hits the same beats (horse racing and betting, drinking, working, fighting, women, writing, dying) but these self-referential poems on mortality, and seeking immortality through the written word, start to feel recycled at a certain point. Not bad, per se, but not a highlight of his bibliography.
August 3, 2019
Filled with frankness and insight, this is another Bukowski masterpiece. The last few poems especially are a testament to the poet living out his final days and growing older and wiser. His anticipation of incoming death marks once again the honesty in his writing and his capacity to tackle any lively subject with poignant introspection. A must-read.
Displaying 1 - 30 of 149 reviews