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The People Look Like Flowers At Last: New Poems – The Final Posthumous Works on Love, Death, and War
the gas line is leaking, the bird is gone from the
cage, the skyline is dotted with vultures;
Benny finally got off the stuff and Betty now has a job
as a waitress; and
the chimney sweep was quite delicate as he
giggled up through the
soot.
I walked miles through the city and recognized
nothing as a giant claw ate at my
stomach while the inside of my head felt
airy as if I was about to go
mad.
it’s not so much that nothing means
anything but more that it keeps meaning
nothing,
there’s no release, just gurus and self-
appointed gods and hucksters.
the more people say, the less there is to say.
even the best books are dry sawdust.
—from "fingernails; nostrils; shoelaces"
cage, the skyline is dotted with vultures;
Benny finally got off the stuff and Betty now has a job
as a waitress; and
the chimney sweep was quite delicate as he
giggled up through the
soot.
I walked miles through the city and recognized
nothing as a giant claw ate at my
stomach while the inside of my head felt
airy as if I was about to go
mad.
it’s not so much that nothing means
anything but more that it keeps meaning
nothing,
there’s no release, just gurus and self-
appointed gods and hucksters.
the more people say, the less there is to say.
even the best books are dry sawdust.
—from "fingernails; nostrils; shoelaces"
320 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 2007
247 people are currently reading
7927 people want to read
About the author
Charles Bukowski
854 books29.9k 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.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 305 reviews
January 18, 2013
Charles Bukowski is my spirit animal.
When I dug into "The Last Night of the Earth Poems" so many years ago, I had no idea that I was on the brink of discovering my all-time favorite writer. I didn't know that there was someone out there, once, who knew that life is ugly but its breathtaking essential elements are what make the trip worth the hassle. Who knew how to play elegance and simplicity against crass observation. Who voiced so perfectly the deep, driving ache that compels one to just write because your only other prodigal skill is drinking yourself to belligerent oblivion, which isn't usually a bankable talent (though if there's a secret that no one's telling me, I want in on it now).
I love his novels and I enjoy his shorter tales but it is Buk's poetry that embodies what he is to me. He doesn't dress up any of it, either: He doesn't have to. He's just pointing out what no one else bothers to piece together. His brutal honesty is all the presentation he needs. This is a man who gives himself so completely to his art that there's not a whole lot left for anyone else, which, sure, it does make him seem like kind of dick, though I maintain he would have been an even bigger ass had he kept his words to himself.
There isn’t much unread Bukowski-wrought poetry left on my shelf these days, though, blessedly, there’s still plenty more to obtain. I’ve taken to capping off my year with some delicious, delicious Buk, which always ensures that I’ll end another year of fierce bookworming on the best note possible. I’m not really sure why “The People Look Like Flowers at Last” wound up being one of the last collections I’ve tackled of my currently owned bunch but I’m glad I finally got around to it, and not just because it gave me the context for one of my most favorite quotes from Literature’s Dirtiest Old Man, demonstrating that ol’ Chuck here harbors no illusions about himself and what he’s meant to do:
great writers are indecent people
they live unfairly
saving the best part for paper.
good human beings save the world
so that bastards like me can keep creating art,
becoming immortal.
if you read this after I am long dead
it means I made it.
And, well, fuck, I found out that Chuck liked "The Stranger" just as much as I did, and for not entirely dissimilar reasons:
all along The Stranger had been my hero
because I thought he'd seen beyond trying
or caring
because it was such a bore
so senseless--
life a big hole in the ground looking up--
and I was wrong again:
hell, I was The Stranger and the book simply hadn't come out the way
it was meant to
be.
And then there were a few more poet-as-the-poem pieces, like the fabulously rambling “Rimbaud be damned” (which is just as insane as the title suggests), beginning with a woman and meandering into self-aware proclamation, which ought to resonate with anyone who’s ever felt like their rich inner world is hopelessly obscured by a pale and misunderstood outer self:
I was as yellow as the sun perhaps
but also as warm and as true as the sun
somewhere there inside me
but nobody would ever find it.
And then, of course, some emotional sledgehammers, like “Jane’s Shoes,” found their way into the mix:
how those strong nights
lied to us,
how those nights became quiet
finally,
my shoes alone in the closet now
He still talks about gambling but as more of an observer, watching without judgment as the foolhardy and hopeless squander away their last dollars. He still talks about drinking and fighting, but in the past tense. He still ogles the ladies and appreciates a fine pair of legs but there's a personal and slightly melancholic undercurrent there. And, like so many of his posthumously published poetry collections, there are the obligatory odes to life’s end zone and all the introspection that comes with nearing it:
no one is sorry I am leaving,
not even I;
but there should be a minstrel
or at least a glass of wine
it bothers the young most, I think:
an unviolent slow death....
will we miss
the love of a woman or music or food
or the gambol of the great mad muscled
horse, kicking clods and destinies
high and away
in just one moment of the sun coming down?
but now it's my turn
and there's no majesty in it
because there was no majesty
before it
But it’s getting harder and harder to explain just what Bukowski does to me. Maybe it’s because I feel like I’m repeating myself and don’t want to do him that bland injustice. Maybe it's because most women I know abhor him and I’ve always felt a little like I’m betraying the sisterhood (not like that’s ever been a deterrent) by worshiping at Chuck’s beer-soaked altar. Mostly, though, I think my adoration and admiration of Bukowski has become something I don't really want to discuss unless I know I'm among those who can truly appreciate him. No one gets me like he does, and I take that shit personally.
and I am sick with caring: go away, everything,
and send fire.
When I dug into "The Last Night of the Earth Poems" so many years ago, I had no idea that I was on the brink of discovering my all-time favorite writer. I didn't know that there was someone out there, once, who knew that life is ugly but its breathtaking essential elements are what make the trip worth the hassle. Who knew how to play elegance and simplicity against crass observation. Who voiced so perfectly the deep, driving ache that compels one to just write because your only other prodigal skill is drinking yourself to belligerent oblivion, which isn't usually a bankable talent (though if there's a secret that no one's telling me, I want in on it now).
I love his novels and I enjoy his shorter tales but it is Buk's poetry that embodies what he is to me. He doesn't dress up any of it, either: He doesn't have to. He's just pointing out what no one else bothers to piece together. His brutal honesty is all the presentation he needs. This is a man who gives himself so completely to his art that there's not a whole lot left for anyone else, which, sure, it does make him seem like kind of dick, though I maintain he would have been an even bigger ass had he kept his words to himself.
There isn’t much unread Bukowski-wrought poetry left on my shelf these days, though, blessedly, there’s still plenty more to obtain. I’ve taken to capping off my year with some delicious, delicious Buk, which always ensures that I’ll end another year of fierce bookworming on the best note possible. I’m not really sure why “The People Look Like Flowers at Last” wound up being one of the last collections I’ve tackled of my currently owned bunch but I’m glad I finally got around to it, and not just because it gave me the context for one of my most favorite quotes from Literature’s Dirtiest Old Man, demonstrating that ol’ Chuck here harbors no illusions about himself and what he’s meant to do:
great writers are indecent people
they live unfairly
saving the best part for paper.
good human beings save the world
so that bastards like me can keep creating art,
becoming immortal.
if you read this after I am long dead
it means I made it.
And, well, fuck, I found out that Chuck liked "The Stranger" just as much as I did, and for not entirely dissimilar reasons:
all along The Stranger had been my hero
because I thought he'd seen beyond trying
or caring
because it was such a bore
so senseless--
life a big hole in the ground looking up--
and I was wrong again:
hell, I was The Stranger and the book simply hadn't come out the way
it was meant to
be.
And then there were a few more poet-as-the-poem pieces, like the fabulously rambling “Rimbaud be damned” (which is just as insane as the title suggests), beginning with a woman and meandering into self-aware proclamation, which ought to resonate with anyone who’s ever felt like their rich inner world is hopelessly obscured by a pale and misunderstood outer self:
I was as yellow as the sun perhaps
but also as warm and as true as the sun
somewhere there inside me
but nobody would ever find it.
And then, of course, some emotional sledgehammers, like “Jane’s Shoes,” found their way into the mix:
how those strong nights
lied to us,
how those nights became quiet
finally,
my shoes alone in the closet now
He still talks about gambling but as more of an observer, watching without judgment as the foolhardy and hopeless squander away their last dollars. He still talks about drinking and fighting, but in the past tense. He still ogles the ladies and appreciates a fine pair of legs but there's a personal and slightly melancholic undercurrent there. And, like so many of his posthumously published poetry collections, there are the obligatory odes to life’s end zone and all the introspection that comes with nearing it:
no one is sorry I am leaving,
not even I;
but there should be a minstrel
or at least a glass of wine
it bothers the young most, I think:
an unviolent slow death....
will we miss
the love of a woman or music or food
or the gambol of the great mad muscled
horse, kicking clods and destinies
high and away
in just one moment of the sun coming down?
but now it's my turn
and there's no majesty in it
because there was no majesty
before it
But it’s getting harder and harder to explain just what Bukowski does to me. Maybe it’s because I feel like I’m repeating myself and don’t want to do him that bland injustice. Maybe it's because most women I know abhor him and I’ve always felt a little like I’m betraying the sisterhood (not like that’s ever been a deterrent) by worshiping at Chuck’s beer-soaked altar. Mostly, though, I think my adoration and admiration of Bukowski has become something I don't really want to discuss unless I know I'm among those who can truly appreciate him. No one gets me like he does, and I take that shit personally.
and I am sick with caring: go away, everything,
and send fire.
November 9, 2008
reading bukowski-
a shot and a beer
when life
leaves me
one motherfucking
parking ticket
after another
a shot and a beer
when life
leaves me
one motherfucking
parking ticket
after another
January 28, 2011
I've read a few of Bukowski's books over the years and always hesitated on rating them because I was always so conflicted as to how I felt. I thought, if I give this bastard 5 stars, is that condoning the fact that he's a misogynistic prick? I've finally decided that no, by enjoying his work, it doesn't mean that I too am a Bukowski in the making. I mean, I've read plenty of books about the holocaust and it doesn't mean I champion genocide.
I also have no excuse for finding bad boys attractive. It's a vile trait of mine. I don't go, oh wow, he only sees me as a piece of arse THEREFORE I AM HOT FOR HIM. But I certainly find dishevelled, messed up men fascinating. Like Hank Moody from Californication, somewhat a parallel of Bukowski - except infinitely more attractive.
Reading Bukowksi's poems are like reading his thoughts scratched down onto a beer-stained napkin, or like reading his diary. Alcoholic snippets where women are commodities (or likened to mares) and his rather mundane life is jotted down in a drawling tone. You can feel Bukowski in every single line. You feel like you know him inside-out, he's a simple man.
His poetry is different to most poetry that I've read. Observations rather than shit that you have to pull apart to understand. As he says himself in "our deep sleep"
Our current moderns
leave me quite
unsatisfied
there is neither lean nor
fat in their efforts, no pace,
no gamble, no joy.
It's work reading them, hard
work.
there is much pretense
and even some clever con
behind their production.
(our deep sleep)
His writing is never pretty, it's rough around the edges and bitter as whiskey in the centre. There's never any soft light filtering through the curtains, or sensuous curves of a woman's body, just;
"I wake up with a stiff neck instead of a stiff
dick and
you."
(the hog in the hedge)
But also, there is so much that I identify with;
"I walked miles through the city and recognized
nothing as a giant claw ate my
stomach while the inside of my head felt
airy as if I was about to go
mad."
(fingernails, nostrils, shoelaces)
&
people ask, "why do you
jump when the telephone
rings?"
if they don't know
you can't tell them
(sadness in the air)
Bukowski is like icecream except minus the sweetness. He's like icecream because you know he's bad for you. You read him guiltily when nobody else is looking so you don't have to defend your actions. He's just so good that you don't want to read him all at once, so you start with taking a bite here and there, but you end up devouring the whole fucking thing. Except with icecream I get diarrhea and vomit a lot because I can't eat dairy. Though I'm presuming a good morning for Bukowski would have involved similar, so there's parallels all over the place.
Sure, he mistreated women, he saw them as commodities and pieces of arse rather than an equal. Anyone who's read Bukowski is well aware of how he views women but he also seemed happy to admit his shortcomings. Not in a prideful way but almost, as if he didn't understand the way that he was, but he just was. I don't think he hated women so much as women confused the shit out of him, intimidated him and so he kept his distance by being a sexist prick. I still struggle to justify my love of him, as I identify as a feminist so therefore, as a feminist, should I be shirking Bukowski, when all his women are one-dimensional tits n arse cardboard cutouts, needless to mention his callous language towards women and their anatomy. But then he seemed to hate a lot of people; men and women alike. A misanthrope with a womanizing streak? I don't know. I read him, I disagree with him a lot, but I still like to read him. Whether that's something I should be keeping to myself because it makes me a Bad Feminist, I've still yet to decide.
In a poem titled, 'yours' he writes;
"I was a terrible and jealous lover who mistreated
and failed to understand
them and it's best that they are with others now
for that will be better for them and that will be
better for me
so when they phone or write or leave
messages
I will foward them all to their new
fine fellows.
I don't deserve what they have and I want to
keep it that way."
He was a loser and he knew it. A loser who wrote really poignant shit. He's fucking fascinating, as most broken, messed up people are. I'll finish up with my favourite poem of his from this collection.
the old woman
she lived in the last old house
on the block
you know the kind; vine-covered, dark, quiet
her neighbors were gone
nothing but high-rise apartments everywhere
you'd see her two or three times a week
pushing her little shopping cart on its two wheels;
then she'd come back with stuff in bags,
go into the house, and that was
it, she never spoke to anybody
it was last week about 3.30pm
that her house began sliding off its foundation.
it was a very slow slide
and you got the idea that the house was just stepping
forward to take a walk down the street-
except some of the lumber began to snap-
it sounded like rifle shots, and the house moaned just a
little - a dark green moan.
somebody called the fire dept.
and men were running around shutting off the gas
and shouting at each other
and telling the crowd to keep back
and along came one of those television trucks
and they filmed the house
sagging toward the street.
then the front door opened and the little old
lady came out
they put the camera on her and a woman ran up with a
mike.
"how long have you bee living in your house?"
"55 years"
"do you have insurance"
"no"
"what will you do now?"
"go back to Ireland"
then she walked away and left them all just standing there.
I also have no excuse for finding bad boys attractive. It's a vile trait of mine. I don't go, oh wow, he only sees me as a piece of arse THEREFORE I AM HOT FOR HIM. But I certainly find dishevelled, messed up men fascinating. Like Hank Moody from Californication, somewhat a parallel of Bukowski - except infinitely more attractive.
Reading Bukowksi's poems are like reading his thoughts scratched down onto a beer-stained napkin, or like reading his diary. Alcoholic snippets where women are commodities (or likened to mares) and his rather mundane life is jotted down in a drawling tone. You can feel Bukowski in every single line. You feel like you know him inside-out, he's a simple man.
His poetry is different to most poetry that I've read. Observations rather than shit that you have to pull apart to understand. As he says himself in "our deep sleep"
Our current moderns
leave me quite
unsatisfied
there is neither lean nor
fat in their efforts, no pace,
no gamble, no joy.
It's work reading them, hard
work.
there is much pretense
and even some clever con
behind their production.
(our deep sleep)
His writing is never pretty, it's rough around the edges and bitter as whiskey in the centre. There's never any soft light filtering through the curtains, or sensuous curves of a woman's body, just;
"I wake up with a stiff neck instead of a stiff
dick and
you."
(the hog in the hedge)
But also, there is so much that I identify with;
"I walked miles through the city and recognized
nothing as a giant claw ate my
stomach while the inside of my head felt
airy as if I was about to go
mad."
(fingernails, nostrils, shoelaces)
&
people ask, "why do you
jump when the telephone
rings?"
if they don't know
you can't tell them
(sadness in the air)
Bukowski is like icecream except minus the sweetness. He's like icecream because you know he's bad for you. You read him guiltily when nobody else is looking so you don't have to defend your actions. He's just so good that you don't want to read him all at once, so you start with taking a bite here and there, but you end up devouring the whole fucking thing. Except with icecream I get diarrhea and vomit a lot because I can't eat dairy. Though I'm presuming a good morning for Bukowski would have involved similar, so there's parallels all over the place.
Sure, he mistreated women, he saw them as commodities and pieces of arse rather than an equal. Anyone who's read Bukowski is well aware of how he views women but he also seemed happy to admit his shortcomings. Not in a prideful way but almost, as if he didn't understand the way that he was, but he just was. I don't think he hated women so much as women confused the shit out of him, intimidated him and so he kept his distance by being a sexist prick. I still struggle to justify my love of him, as I identify as a feminist so therefore, as a feminist, should I be shirking Bukowski, when all his women are one-dimensional tits n arse cardboard cutouts, needless to mention his callous language towards women and their anatomy. But then he seemed to hate a lot of people; men and women alike. A misanthrope with a womanizing streak? I don't know. I read him, I disagree with him a lot, but I still like to read him. Whether that's something I should be keeping to myself because it makes me a Bad Feminist, I've still yet to decide.
In a poem titled, 'yours' he writes;
"I was a terrible and jealous lover who mistreated
and failed to understand
them and it's best that they are with others now
for that will be better for them and that will be
better for me
so when they phone or write or leave
messages
I will foward them all to their new
fine fellows.
I don't deserve what they have and I want to
keep it that way."
He was a loser and he knew it. A loser who wrote really poignant shit. He's fucking fascinating, as most broken, messed up people are. I'll finish up with my favourite poem of his from this collection.
the old woman
she lived in the last old house
on the block
you know the kind; vine-covered, dark, quiet
her neighbors were gone
nothing but high-rise apartments everywhere
you'd see her two or three times a week
pushing her little shopping cart on its two wheels;
then she'd come back with stuff in bags,
go into the house, and that was
it, she never spoke to anybody
it was last week about 3.30pm
that her house began sliding off its foundation.
it was a very slow slide
and you got the idea that the house was just stepping
forward to take a walk down the street-
except some of the lumber began to snap-
it sounded like rifle shots, and the house moaned just a
little - a dark green moan.
somebody called the fire dept.
and men were running around shutting off the gas
and shouting at each other
and telling the crowd to keep back
and along came one of those television trucks
and they filmed the house
sagging toward the street.
then the front door opened and the little old
lady came out
they put the camera on her and a woman ran up with a
mike.
"how long have you bee living in your house?"
"55 years"
"do you have insurance"
"no"
"what will you do now?"
"go back to Ireland"
then she walked away and left them all just standing there.
July 20, 2017
"I watch her, the purple
doll so
sad so cheap so
sad, you would never want to
bed down with her or even hear her
speak, yet in that drunken place
you would
like to hand your heart to her
and say
touch it
but then
give it back."
This is one of the best collections of poems I have read.
What a brilliant idea to start with For They Had Things To Say, just captivating.
The following is more of a list for me for future reference rather than any kind of review.
For They Had Things to Say
People as Flowers
Stranger in a Strange City
Purple Glow ("purple does something strange to me")
Breakfast ("you have to die a few times before you can really live")
Brainless Eyes
War and Peace
The Harder You Try
Love Song to the Woman I Saw Wednesday at the Racetrack
Goodbye, My Love
On Beer Cand and Sugar Cartons
Pay Your Rent or Get Out
Age
The Dogs Bark Knives
9 a.m.
Lousy Day
Sadness in the Air
The Great Debate
A Great Writer
Passage
A Most Dark Night in April
Sun Coming Down
doll so
sad so cheap so
sad, you would never want to
bed down with her or even hear her
speak, yet in that drunken place
you would
like to hand your heart to her
and say
touch it
but then
give it back."
This is one of the best collections of poems I have read.
What a brilliant idea to start with For They Had Things To Say, just captivating.
The following is more of a list for me for future reference rather than any kind of review.
For They Had Things to Say
People as Flowers
Stranger in a Strange City
Purple Glow ("purple does something strange to me")
Breakfast ("you have to die a few times before you can really live")
Brainless Eyes
War and Peace
The Harder You Try
Love Song to the Woman I Saw Wednesday at the Racetrack
Goodbye, My Love
On Beer Cand and Sugar Cartons
Pay Your Rent or Get Out
Age
The Dogs Bark Knives
9 a.m.
Lousy Day
Sadness in the Air
The Great Debate
A Great Writer
Passage
A Most Dark Night in April
Sun Coming Down
May 15, 2015
i think i may have outgrown bukowski. or maybe just spending time reading misogynistic writers when i could be reading nonmale writers instead.
April 18, 2021
“bukowski, refer to a woman without calling her a whore” challenge
January 25, 2011
a plausible finish
there ought to be a place to go
when you can't sleep
or you're tired of getting drunk
and the grass doesn't work anymore,
and I don't mean to go
to hash or cocaine,
I mean a place to go to besides
the death that's waiting
or to a love that doesn't work
anymore.
there ought to be a place to go
when you can't sleep
besides to a tv set or to a movie
or to buy a newspaper
or to read a novel.
it's not having that place to go to
that creates the people now in madhouses
and the suicides.
I suppose what most people do
when there isn't any place to go
is to go to some place or to something
that hardly satisfies them,
and this ritual tends to sandpaper them
down to where they can somehow continue even
without hope.
those faces you see every day on the streets
were not created
entirely without
hope: be kind to them:
like you
they have not
escaped.
there ought to be a place to go
when you can't sleep
or you're tired of getting drunk
and the grass doesn't work anymore,
and I don't mean to go
to hash or cocaine,
I mean a place to go to besides
the death that's waiting
or to a love that doesn't work
anymore.
there ought to be a place to go
when you can't sleep
besides to a tv set or to a movie
or to buy a newspaper
or to read a novel.
it's not having that place to go to
that creates the people now in madhouses
and the suicides.
I suppose what most people do
when there isn't any place to go
is to go to some place or to something
that hardly satisfies them,
and this ritual tends to sandpaper them
down to where they can somehow continue even
without hope.
those faces you see every day on the streets
were not created
entirely without
hope: be kind to them:
like you
they have not
escaped.
October 29, 2016
" If you read this after I am long dead, it means I made it."
September 1, 2016
the creation coffin
the ability to suffer and endure -
that's nobility, friend -
the ability to suffer and endure
for an idea, a feeling, a way -
the ability to suffer and endure
that's art, my friend -
the ability to suffer and endure
when a love ends -
that's hell, old friend...
nobility, art and hell,
let's talk about art a while:
promulgation of my attitudes
like stilts walking centuries
beeswax for brains
destiny is my crippled daughter
look here, it's difficult
me against them
with them
Kafka let me in
Hemingway beware
Hegel you're funny
Cervantes you mean you wrote that
novel at the age of
80?
writers are indecent people
they live unfairly
saving the main part for paper
jesus christ would have been
a duller writer than Theodore Dreiser
jesus christ would have been a
very lousy writer
the beard and hair fit
but he was too good at
conversations and
miracles
a good human being may save the world
so the bastards can keep creating art
if you read this after I am long dead
it means I made it
and
it's your turn now
to misuse your wife
abuse your children
love thyself
live off the funds of others
dislike all art created before and
during your time,
and dislike or even hate humanity
singly or en mass
bastard, if you read this after I am long dead
shove me out of here. I
probably wasn't that
good.
All right, Camus
met this guy, somewhere, hell his eyes looked like a madman's
or maybe it was only my reflection of...
well, forget it, anyway, he said to me, uh uh you read Camus?
we're both in a very womanless bar looking
for a piece of ass or some way out of the top of the sky...
it wasn't working"”there was just the bartender wondering why he'd
ever gotten into the business
and myself, very discouraged with the fact that I had been translated
into 6 or 7 languages
and I was known more by more skidrow bums than college profs,
and this guy kept going on"”
The Stranger, you know, that depicts out modern society"”
the deadened man"”
couldn't cry at his mother's funeral,
killed an Arab or two without even knowing why"”
he kept on and on
on and on
telling me what a son of a bitch The Strange
was, and I kept thinking, maybe he's right"”
you know, those speeches before the Academies"”
you couldn't tell whether Camus was talla and laughing out of the
side of his mouth or
whether he was
insane. he talked the same as the guy next t me at the bar and we
were only looking for
pussy.
it was very sad"”
all along The Stranger had been my hero
because I thought he'd seen beyond trying
or caring
because it was such a bore
so senseless"”
that big hole in the ground looking up"”
and I was wrong again:
hell, I was THE STRANGER, and the book hadn't been written the way
it had been meant to
be.
the people, no
startling! such determination in the
dull and uninspired
and the copyists.
they never lose the fierce gratitude
for their uneventfulness,
nor do they forget to laugh
at the wit of slugs;
as a study in diluted senses
they'd make any pharaoh
cough up his beans;
in music they prefer the monotony of
dripping faucets;
in love and sex they prefer each other
and therefore compound the
problem;
the energy with which they propel their
uselessness
(without any self-doubt)
toward worthless goals
is as magnificent as
cow shit.
they produce novels, children, death,
freeways, cities, wars, wealth, poverty, politicians
and total areas of grandiose waste;
it's as if the whole world is wrapped in dirty
bandages.
it's best to take walks late at
night.
it's best to do your business only on
Mondays and
Tuesdays.
it's best to sit in a small room
with the shades down
and
wait.
the strongest men are the fewest
and the strongest women die alone
too.
the ability to suffer and endure -
that's nobility, friend -
the ability to suffer and endure
for an idea, a feeling, a way -
the ability to suffer and endure
that's art, my friend -
the ability to suffer and endure
when a love ends -
that's hell, old friend...
nobility, art and hell,
let's talk about art a while:
promulgation of my attitudes
like stilts walking centuries
beeswax for brains
destiny is my crippled daughter
look here, it's difficult
me against them
with them
Kafka let me in
Hemingway beware
Hegel you're funny
Cervantes you mean you wrote that
novel at the age of
80?
writers are indecent people
they live unfairly
saving the main part for paper
jesus christ would have been
a duller writer than Theodore Dreiser
jesus christ would have been a
very lousy writer
the beard and hair fit
but he was too good at
conversations and
miracles
a good human being may save the world
so the bastards can keep creating art
if you read this after I am long dead
it means I made it
and
it's your turn now
to misuse your wife
abuse your children
love thyself
live off the funds of others
dislike all art created before and
during your time,
and dislike or even hate humanity
singly or en mass
bastard, if you read this after I am long dead
shove me out of here. I
probably wasn't that
good.
All right, Camus
met this guy, somewhere, hell his eyes looked like a madman's
or maybe it was only my reflection of...
well, forget it, anyway, he said to me, uh uh you read Camus?
we're both in a very womanless bar looking
for a piece of ass or some way out of the top of the sky...
it wasn't working"”there was just the bartender wondering why he'd
ever gotten into the business
and myself, very discouraged with the fact that I had been translated
into 6 or 7 languages
and I was known more by more skidrow bums than college profs,
and this guy kept going on"”
The Stranger, you know, that depicts out modern society"”
the deadened man"”
couldn't cry at his mother's funeral,
killed an Arab or two without even knowing why"”
he kept on and on
on and on
telling me what a son of a bitch The Strange
was, and I kept thinking, maybe he's right"”
you know, those speeches before the Academies"”
you couldn't tell whether Camus was talla and laughing out of the
side of his mouth or
whether he was
insane. he talked the same as the guy next t me at the bar and we
were only looking for
pussy.
it was very sad"”
all along The Stranger had been my hero
because I thought he'd seen beyond trying
or caring
because it was such a bore
so senseless"”
that big hole in the ground looking up"”
and I was wrong again:
hell, I was THE STRANGER, and the book hadn't been written the way
it had been meant to
be.
the people, no
startling! such determination in the
dull and uninspired
and the copyists.
they never lose the fierce gratitude
for their uneventfulness,
nor do they forget to laugh
at the wit of slugs;
as a study in diluted senses
they'd make any pharaoh
cough up his beans;
in music they prefer the monotony of
dripping faucets;
in love and sex they prefer each other
and therefore compound the
problem;
the energy with which they propel their
uselessness
(without any self-doubt)
toward worthless goals
is as magnificent as
cow shit.
they produce novels, children, death,
freeways, cities, wars, wealth, poverty, politicians
and total areas of grandiose waste;
it's as if the whole world is wrapped in dirty
bandages.
it's best to take walks late at
night.
it's best to do your business only on
Mondays and
Tuesdays.
it's best to sit in a small room
with the shades down
and
wait.
the strongest men are the fewest
and the strongest women die alone
too.
February 2, 2016
When you're about to screw things up, Bukowski comes to you, saying "fuck off," and drinks beer (of course you feel responsible enough to buy him at least two bottles).
February 20, 2017
This collection of poetry is said to be the final posthumous publication of Charles Bukowski’s work, compiled with the help of some manuscripts that he left behind for the express purpose of it being released after he kicked the bucket. And boy, what a collection it is.
The interesting thing here is that the work is even more introspective than you might be used to from Bukowski, and while he looks back at his youth with the experience of age, he also covers some of the perils of old age, including a piece about how much it sucks to be on antibiotics and unable to drink or smoke when you’ve been drinking and smoking for fifty years straight and it’s made its way into your unique style of literature.
Speaking of literature, Bukowski also takes a look at the literary world, ruminating on the death of Ernest Hemingway or poking fun at the author bios that you see inside anthologies and literary magazines. Somehow, the great poet was able to remain firmly anti-establishment even after being accepted by it, and these poems offer a fascinating insight into that unusual contradiction.
Bukowski has so many poetry books on the market that it’s difficult to recommend any one book over another. That said, this was one of my favourite collections, and this is definitely a must-have for any serious Bukowski fan. The man had a way with words that no other writer has been able to duplicate, although many have tried. It’s a refreshing taste of a different type of literature, made all the more poignant because it wasn’t released until after his death. I’d definitely recommend reading it.
The interesting thing here is that the work is even more introspective than you might be used to from Bukowski, and while he looks back at his youth with the experience of age, he also covers some of the perils of old age, including a piece about how much it sucks to be on antibiotics and unable to drink or smoke when you’ve been drinking and smoking for fifty years straight and it’s made its way into your unique style of literature.
Speaking of literature, Bukowski also takes a look at the literary world, ruminating on the death of Ernest Hemingway or poking fun at the author bios that you see inside anthologies and literary magazines. Somehow, the great poet was able to remain firmly anti-establishment even after being accepted by it, and these poems offer a fascinating insight into that unusual contradiction.
Bukowski has so many poetry books on the market that it’s difficult to recommend any one book over another. That said, this was one of my favourite collections, and this is definitely a must-have for any serious Bukowski fan. The man had a way with words that no other writer has been able to duplicate, although many have tried. It’s a refreshing taste of a different type of literature, made all the more poignant because it wasn’t released until after his death. I’d definitely recommend reading it.
July 6, 2018
Bdiete už bohviekoľkú noc v rade, asi vám chýba melatonín, hovorí doktor a predpisuje recept, ale vy dobre viete čo vám chýba, peniaze, on, leto, zdravý rozum a tak sú zas tri ráno ako už bohviekoľkú noc v rade a vy si čítate básne a na strane 231 zrazu pochopíte celú tú poéziu života takto na jeseň bez peňazí, bez neho o pol štvrtej ráno a zdravý rozum vám velí spať ale vy nejdete, lebo na strane 232 je dalšia báseň.
February 23, 2024
3.5
I enjoyed several poems at the beginning and at the end but the middle part was just about supposedly stupid women with such long, long legs which dragged on just exactly as long.
I enjoyed several poems at the beginning and at the end but the middle part was just about supposedly stupid women with such long, long legs which dragged on just exactly as long.
November 28, 2012
It's been almost ten years since I read Bukowski after reading something by him each year for fifteen before 2002. Why I stayed away so long is a mystery. It had been so long that I feared I might feel differently about his writing now that I was older or that in that same time period Buk's prowess might have diminished. Now, after reading this and The Continual Condition back to back, I can report I am happy to be back, front and center, with his work and am finding his poetry - some new, some old in these two volumes - has aged like a fine wine while I have been away. I'm working my way backwards through the posthumous releases I have purchased in the past decade but did not read. Next up, Come On In!
October 22, 2008
perfect to read aloud to the dickhead man you've been seeing
April 12, 2021
4.5 stars
Still marvelous pieces, still moving verses, still intense feelings while reading some of the poems.
And still poems that I don't click with - but they are rare in this collection compared with Burning in Water, Drowning in Flame .
Some of the poems look like really short stories in verses; some are musings on subjects like writing, death, love. Most of them are quite depressing, but so beautiful in their own way, so powerful. Once more, I wrote down multiple verses and reread some of the poems entirely. Once more, Bukowski made me want to write and read and live.
I'll sure keep reading this poet!
Still marvelous pieces, still moving verses, still intense feelings while reading some of the poems.
And still poems that I don't click with - but they are rare in this collection compared with Burning in Water, Drowning in Flame .
Some of the poems look like really short stories in verses; some are musings on subjects like writing, death, love. Most of them are quite depressing, but so beautiful in their own way, so powerful. Once more, I wrote down multiple verses and reread some of the poems entirely. Once more, Bukowski made me want to write and read and live.
I'll sure keep reading this poet!
September 14, 2017
يجب ان تموت اكثر من مرة لكي تفهم الحياة
January 17, 2018
Some needles in a hay, my personal experience with Bukowski's poetry —predictable outcome, since good old Hank used to write ~10 poems a day, which was okay because he didn't intend to write masterpieces (yet he talked here and there about inmortal poems, but even that can and cannot be seen as a contradiction, depending on the goal you impose to your art, which in the case of Bukowski was not highly aesthetic but to the core poetry [which makes me think of Daniel Johnston's music, which I highly respect and enjoy], and some indeed have made it quite well and can be considered as inmortal, namely the famous Bluebird]) but casual everydayman poetry [yet highbrow in literary and musical taste, but, nonetheless, mundane in its style, working class themes and pleasures to balance well enough].
It is only an auctioneer who can equally and impartially admire all schools of art.
(Oscar Wilde)
I quote (the always so very quotable) Wilde to defend myself (more poets today reverence Buk than Baudelaire, which is only normal 'cause all of us have imitated the former in high school [keep on doing it in adulthood, when Bukowski himself hated shallowers, is the big, and sickening, problem of a lot of talentless barnacles who don't acknowledge the anxiety of the influence to either stop writing completely or overcome it and create something of their own] and no one, finished the 19th century, has ever dared trying to imitate the latter —not just harder but impossible]), meaning that I prefer poets such as Baudelaire, who polished the same poems over and over again for a decade, like a marble block worked by Michelangelo, over Bukowski dropping poems like Pollock dropped painting (revolutionary at his time and highly influentional since then, but just not my favourite thing, unless in NeXTmodernism, where I take it to the extreme, writing a book in an hour [Wish You Were Here], but even that is a paradoxically reactionary defense mechanism to not only prove a point but something to myself —that, if I want to, I can be as stupidly and trendily modern as any average Joe, and even more, 'cause, no matter how much I try, I was lucky in the gene lottery [and culture too, not just because of being half Spaniard and half French but my uncle showing me amazing music since I was a kiddo] and cannot be mediocre no matter how badly I try).
Bukowski loved César Vallejo... but even César, so vanguardist in Trilce, polished it as much as Eliot polished The Waste Land, but, because the lines in Trilce, unlike Eliot's, run free, the craft behind it is harder to spot, but Vallejo himself talked about him getting rid of everything which made the poem narrative-like and, in a letter to a friend, said:
¡Dios sabe cuánto he sufrido para que el ritmo no traspasara esa libertad y cayera en libertinaje!
God knows how much I've suffered in order for the rhythm to not overstep freedom and fall into debauchery!
It is only an auctioneer who can equally and impartially admire all schools of art.
(Oscar Wilde)
I quote (the always so very quotable) Wilde to defend myself (more poets today reverence Buk than Baudelaire, which is only normal 'cause all of us have imitated the former in high school [keep on doing it in adulthood, when Bukowski himself hated shallowers, is the big, and sickening, problem of a lot of talentless barnacles who don't acknowledge the anxiety of the influence to either stop writing completely or overcome it and create something of their own] and no one, finished the 19th century, has ever dared trying to imitate the latter —not just harder but impossible]), meaning that I prefer poets such as Baudelaire, who polished the same poems over and over again for a decade, like a marble block worked by Michelangelo, over Bukowski dropping poems like Pollock dropped painting (revolutionary at his time and highly influentional since then, but just not my favourite thing, unless in NeXTmodernism, where I take it to the extreme, writing a book in an hour [Wish You Were Here], but even that is a paradoxically reactionary defense mechanism to not only prove a point but something to myself —that, if I want to, I can be as stupidly and trendily modern as any average Joe, and even more, 'cause, no matter how much I try, I was lucky in the gene lottery [and culture too, not just because of being half Spaniard and half French but my uncle showing me amazing music since I was a kiddo] and cannot be mediocre no matter how badly I try).
Bukowski loved César Vallejo... but even César, so vanguardist in Trilce, polished it as much as Eliot polished The Waste Land, but, because the lines in Trilce, unlike Eliot's, run free, the craft behind it is harder to spot, but Vallejo himself talked about him getting rid of everything which made the poem narrative-like and, in a letter to a friend, said:
¡Dios sabe cuánto he sufrido para que el ritmo no traspasara esa libertad y cayera en libertinaje!
God knows how much I've suffered in order for the rhythm to not overstep freedom and fall into debauchery!
April 17, 2019
"I often go to this little place
to eat
about 2:30 in the afternoon
because all the people who eat
there are completely sane,
glad to be simply alive and
eating their food
near a plate glass window
which welcomes the sun
but doesn’t let the cars and
the sidewalks come inside."
Brilliant as always. I never expected this collection to be any less. Bukowski is a genius at relaying real life, bad decisions, the races, and most famously, women, in his poems. This man is more than a poet who inserts breaks between his sentences and calls it a day; he is the real deal who captures the gritty details of life and makes them ugly beautiful to the reader. It's quite thrilling how someone can write time and time again about the same old thing without seeming tedious. How can you not love that?
to eat
about 2:30 in the afternoon
because all the people who eat
there are completely sane,
glad to be simply alive and
eating their food
near a plate glass window
which welcomes the sun
but doesn’t let the cars and
the sidewalks come inside."
Brilliant as always. I never expected this collection to be any less. Bukowski is a genius at relaying real life, bad decisions, the races, and most famously, women, in his poems. This man is more than a poet who inserts breaks between his sentences and calls it a day; he is the real deal who captures the gritty details of life and makes them ugly beautiful to the reader. It's quite thrilling how someone can write time and time again about the same old thing without seeming tedious. How can you not love that?
November 25, 2009
I liked this one better than the last couple volumes they put together of the posthumous poems. These ones just seemed to hang together better. I mean, not every poem hits me as hard as every other. Still, there is a lot more of the poems that make me sit and wonder after reading them. This guy talked like he was such a bastard, and it sounds like maybe he was from what other people say, but there are just these moments where he seems to be the kindest judge of humanity. The moments in the poems where he shows us everything that is both sad and beautiful about the lives we all have to lead. Usually brought out by describing something fairly disgusting.
July 9, 2010
Charles Bukowski is the literary love of my life. This is one of my favorite poetry books by him. I love how he can make the vulgar beautiful. I also love how confessional he is in his poetry. Instead of trying to sugarcoat his feelings, he chooses to remain raw and open to his readers.
April 3, 2017
Living out a life among billions of idiots with molecule feelings is an art in itself.
March 13, 2019
we deserve nothing
and that’s what we have
now.
and that’s what we have
now.
April 25, 2021
weirdly obsessed with the horse track
June 6, 2023
the misogynistic edgelord wrote a few good ones ngl
February 16, 2021
En la preparatoria recuerdo empezar a leer a Bukowski por una recomendación de un compañero (en una peda, que oportuno). Yo estaba en mi etapa de mamador de la poesía (una horrible etapa) y sin duda algo tenía Bukowski que lo encontrabas bueno. No quiero decir que entiendo como funciona la poesía ni nada por el estilo, pero en la crudeza de sus versos podías leer a alguien lastimado, o al menos esa era mi impresión cada que lo leía. Fue por un rato un escritor del cual leía bastante. En la universidad lo retomamos por un profesor y volvió mi curiosidad de leer, pero algo que no fuera su poesía (ya tenía dos poemas de él que me gustaban: "Bluebird" y "The Laughing Heart"). Pues sí leí otros dos libros de cuentos de él y pues sí, me gustaba su manera de escribir, aunque no entendía del todo por qué.
Este libro recolecta los últimos poemas escritos por Bukowski, en donde hace mucha referencia a lo que ya veía muy de cerca, la muerte. Parece que escribir poesía sobre eso era alguna manera de sobrellevar las cosas, se lee tranquilo, pero al mismo tiempo como alguien con miedo, así como lo leía durante la preparatoria.
Al final del libro puedo decir que Bukowski para mi es quizás un misterio. Me gustó el libro, pero aún no sé por qué.
Este libro recolecta los últimos poemas escritos por Bukowski, en donde hace mucha referencia a lo que ya veía muy de cerca, la muerte. Parece que escribir poesía sobre eso era alguna manera de sobrellevar las cosas, se lee tranquilo, pero al mismo tiempo como alguien con miedo, así como lo leía durante la preparatoria.
Al final del libro puedo decir que Bukowski para mi es quizás un misterio. Me gustó el libro, pero aún no sé por qué.
March 13, 2020
Buwoski é otimo quando nao esta escrevendo sobre mulheres!!
Esse livro estava na minha lista a tempos porque sei que é um dos favs do harry styles. Sim, eu sou esse tipo de fã. (Inclusive acho que encontrei um poema ai que tenho convicçao que foi uma inspiração para Lights Out)
Favs: near a plate glass window, people as flowers, the minute, the people no, purple glow, grip the dark, i promise i won’t shoot, breakfast, war and peace, the harder you try, fulfillment, yours, of course, i live in a neighbourhood of murder, the bombing of berlin, all right camus, you can't force your way through the eye of the needle, two kinds of hell, a plausible finish, it was an UNDERWOOD, the creation coffin, the 7 horse, after receiving contributor's copy, you write many poems about death, dog, the hatred for hemingway, the american flag shirt, the great debate, the sorry history of myself, law, eulogies, sun coming down
Esse livro estava na minha lista a tempos porque sei que é um dos favs do harry styles. Sim, eu sou esse tipo de fã. (Inclusive acho que encontrei um poema ai que tenho convicçao que foi uma inspiração para Lights Out)
Favs: near a plate glass window, people as flowers, the minute, the people no, purple glow, grip the dark, i promise i won’t shoot, breakfast, war and peace, the harder you try, fulfillment, yours, of course, i live in a neighbourhood of murder, the bombing of berlin, all right camus, you can't force your way through the eye of the needle, two kinds of hell, a plausible finish, it was an UNDERWOOD, the creation coffin, the 7 horse, after receiving contributor's copy, you write many poems about death, dog, the hatred for hemingway, the american flag shirt, the great debate, the sorry history of myself, law, eulogies, sun coming down
Read
June 25, 2021My favourite poems from this collection: 'for they had things to say', 'law', 'fingernails; nostrils; shoelaces'
December 29, 2018
Bukowski uses a peculiar narrative and original point of view. There's never any ray of sunlight filtering through the curtains or soft pastels coloring his poems; they are rarely pretty, but always real, bitter and striking.
His poems are titled in an interesting manner and in an unorthodox fashion, I wonder how he's chosen some, even the collection's title.
His pieces read like little excerpts of life, mostly autobiographic, which hold a final twist, they have a surprise, never the expected finale.
He is unbelievably witty and humorous, I've found myself snickering embarrassingly at some passages.
I simply adore his wit:
"we went into the next place
and i looked around
and seeing that everyone was more than
4 feet tall,
I ordered 2 more
drinks."
-the dwarf with a punch
Bukowski keeps the reader hooked by emphasizing on a plot line which develops but does not find a conclusion, therefore creating great curiosity in the reader that isn't satiated by his verses.
In his work I find raw emotions that imbue the text in a form that resembles incredibly modern poetry (except for the lack of that desperate desire for the relatable I find too often in contemporary collections). In this volume everything feels true and carnal and laid bare for me to read, it almost makes me feel unwelcome, like an uninvited trespasser on foreign ground.
The collection is divided into four parts, here are some of my favorites (and why) from each one.
part one - pure and raw rage and blissful sadness, an explosion of vivid and fierce emotions arranged in heartfelt verses
•near a plate glass window - peculiar jump into Bukowski's trail of thought and how he chooses to live and ordinary afternoon
•the 1930s - nostalgia for a more childish time that one barely remembers and, even then, always with a pink cotton-candy-flavored fog to soften the rough edges of memory
•people as flowers - in addition to the extraordinary appeal of containing the beautiful words in the title, it almost seems dystopic:
"this," I yell at them, "is in defense of the poverty of self and in defense of the freedom not to love!"
•minute - wonderful thought and reflection
•purple glow - reconsider existence. powerful stance on emotions. on living.
•grip the dark - reads as his last words and is interesting (and beautiful) insight to his biography.
•breakfast - showed me that bukowski can be sweet as well as dark while narrating this peaceful tale
•brainless eyes
•war and peace - he just has a way with words and can effectively explain the most complex feelings
part two - women in every light and atmosphere, in full power over their glorious being or during moments of vulnerability or in playful youth or femme fatales
•no more of those young men - aah the bashful and hypocritical action of women. kind of funny :).
•don't worry, baby, I'll get it - such a climatic tale. I didn't know what was coming and was so impressed with Bukowski's art of storytelling within the poetry, beautiful.
•possession - started off like an hopper painting and then took an unexpected turn
•six !! - boys playing games that are usually played by girls
•man mowing the lawn across the way from me !! - had me smiling, with the unusual metaphor and the picture created, for the envy of an unbroken heart of an ordinary guy. it was truly a beautiful invective to women's beauty.
part three - the leisure of passionate writing riddled with the challenges met during the process, the lack of inspiration, the pressure, the eye of the public, the publishing and the underlining unsuccess when the poems aren't read in Bukowski's voice
• you can't force yourself through the eye of the needle - a little insight on the poetic process and the satisfaction that derives from it
•a plausible finish - I think anyone can relate to this poem's message, the desire to belong, the lack of hope, the common state of us all.
•you write many poems about death - I felt Charles sitting next to me, on this high speed train, clicking away on his typewriter, speaking to me with his inked words, staring straight into my eyes and deeper
part four - enduring and giving up, aren't those the choices that life is all about? also death, so much death.
•age - after spending days with my elderly grandparents this piece made me sad and melancholic. I understand my grandpa, I just wish they had more time.
•the great debate - I love the author questioning the volatility of poets, comparing them to dinosaurs and confronting the importance of fame
•law - sarcastically hilarious, Bukowski's satire is just so direct and pungent
His poems are titled in an interesting manner and in an unorthodox fashion, I wonder how he's chosen some, even the collection's title.
His pieces read like little excerpts of life, mostly autobiographic, which hold a final twist, they have a surprise, never the expected finale.
He is unbelievably witty and humorous, I've found myself snickering embarrassingly at some passages.
I simply adore his wit:
"we went into the next place
and i looked around
and seeing that everyone was more than
4 feet tall,
I ordered 2 more
drinks."
-the dwarf with a punch
Bukowski keeps the reader hooked by emphasizing on a plot line which develops but does not find a conclusion, therefore creating great curiosity in the reader that isn't satiated by his verses.
In his work I find raw emotions that imbue the text in a form that resembles incredibly modern poetry (except for the lack of that desperate desire for the relatable I find too often in contemporary collections). In this volume everything feels true and carnal and laid bare for me to read, it almost makes me feel unwelcome, like an uninvited trespasser on foreign ground.
The collection is divided into four parts, here are some of my favorites (and why) from each one.
part one - pure and raw rage and blissful sadness, an explosion of vivid and fierce emotions arranged in heartfelt verses
•near a plate glass window - peculiar jump into Bukowski's trail of thought and how he chooses to live and ordinary afternoon
•the 1930s - nostalgia for a more childish time that one barely remembers and, even then, always with a pink cotton-candy-flavored fog to soften the rough edges of memory
•people as flowers - in addition to the extraordinary appeal of containing the beautiful words in the title, it almost seems dystopic:
"this," I yell at them, "is in defense of the poverty of self and in defense of the freedom not to love!"
•minute - wonderful thought and reflection
•purple glow - reconsider existence. powerful stance on emotions. on living.
•grip the dark - reads as his last words and is interesting (and beautiful) insight to his biography.
•breakfast - showed me that bukowski can be sweet as well as dark while narrating this peaceful tale
•brainless eyes
•war and peace - he just has a way with words and can effectively explain the most complex feelings
part two - women in every light and atmosphere, in full power over their glorious being or during moments of vulnerability or in playful youth or femme fatales
•no more of those young men - aah the bashful and hypocritical action of women. kind of funny :).
•don't worry, baby, I'll get it - such a climatic tale. I didn't know what was coming and was so impressed with Bukowski's art of storytelling within the poetry, beautiful.
•possession - started off like an hopper painting and then took an unexpected turn
•six !! - boys playing games that are usually played by girls
•man mowing the lawn across the way from me !! - had me smiling, with the unusual metaphor and the picture created, for the envy of an unbroken heart of an ordinary guy. it was truly a beautiful invective to women's beauty.
part three - the leisure of passionate writing riddled with the challenges met during the process, the lack of inspiration, the pressure, the eye of the public, the publishing and the underlining unsuccess when the poems aren't read in Bukowski's voice
• you can't force yourself through the eye of the needle - a little insight on the poetic process and the satisfaction that derives from it
•a plausible finish - I think anyone can relate to this poem's message, the desire to belong, the lack of hope, the common state of us all.
•you write many poems about death - I felt Charles sitting next to me, on this high speed train, clicking away on his typewriter, speaking to me with his inked words, staring straight into my eyes and deeper
part four - enduring and giving up, aren't those the choices that life is all about? also death, so much death.
•age - after spending days with my elderly grandparents this piece made me sad and melancholic. I understand my grandpa, I just wish they had more time.
•the great debate - I love the author questioning the volatility of poets, comparing them to dinosaurs and confronting the importance of fame
•law - sarcastically hilarious, Bukowski's satire is just so direct and pungent
June 5, 2024
Charles Bukowski has definitely earned his nickname. This writing is vulgar and raw, offering a glimpse into his reality through your own mind’s eye. Mostly just free verse on his muddled days and thoughts with a tone of perpetual dread and listlessness; its beauty is in its accessibility and the way it creates an atmosphere so effortlessly. Reminiscent of a dank motel room with a single light fixture over the small, cluttered, corner desk—it reeks of ash, whiskey, and regret. I think he did a great job at conveying life’s mechanisms. When I felt bored throughout my reading I found myself laughing at the irony. It really *is * so dull and cyclical and uninspiring at times. I want to read him at different stages of his career to see how his works compare.
“then her eyes look at me, love breaks my
bones and I
laugh.”
“then her eyes look at me, love breaks my
bones and I
laugh.”
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