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The Night Torn Mad With Footsteps: Gritty and Amusing Poems on Squabbling Neighbors, Off-Kilter Lovers, and Wisdom
This collection of previously unpublished poems offers the author's take on squabbling neighbours, off-kilter lovers, would-be hangers-on, and the loneliness of a man afflicted with acute powers of observation. The tone is gritty and amusing, spiralling out towards a cock-eyed wisdom.
360 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 2001
104 people are currently reading
1173 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 72 reviews
June 27, 2008
Bukowski writes a lot of beatnik, working-man's poetry. All of it is great, but occasionally, he transcends:
"A Song With No End"
when Whitman wrote, "I sing the body electric"
I know what he
meant
I know what he
wanted:
to be completely alive every moment
in spite of the inevitable.
we can't cheat death but we can make it
work so hard
that when it does take
us
it will have known a victory just as
perfect as
ours.
"A Song With No End"
when Whitman wrote, "I sing the body electric"
I know what he
meant
I know what he
wanted:
to be completely alive every moment
in spite of the inevitable.
we can't cheat death but we can make it
work so hard
that when it does take
us
it will have known a victory just as
perfect as
ours.
October 13, 2015
There were some really brilliant poems in this collection but there were also many that fell flat to me.
I still would recommend it but more so if you're already a fan of bukowski.
if you haven't read bukowski yet, I'd recommend checking out some of his novels first before the poetry like *Ham on Rye*, Women, Factotum and Post Office
Cheers
I still would recommend it but more so if you're already a fan of bukowski.
if you haven't read bukowski yet, I'd recommend checking out some of his novels first before the poetry like *Ham on Rye*, Women, Factotum and Post Office
Cheers
December 27, 2012
Well, i liked it more than Factotum.
There was much more diversity in the subjects of the poems and some of them struck me with their simple truth.
I really liked "A definition" , "Two cats asleep downstairs and death itself no problem" , " It's just me".
I also liked that he wrote about his cats and seemed to love and admire them very much :)
"For the foxes"
Don't feel sorry for me.
I am a competent,
satisfied human being.
Be sorry for the others
who
fidget
complain
who
constantly
rearrange their
lives
like
furniture.
Juggling mates
and
attitudes
their
confusion is
constant
and it will
touch
whoever they
deal with.
Beware of them:
one of their
key words is
"love"
and beware of those who
only take
instructions from their
God
for they have
failed completely to
live their own
lives... "
There was much more diversity in the subjects of the poems and some of them struck me with their simple truth.
I really liked "A definition" , "Two cats asleep downstairs and death itself no problem" , " It's just me".
I also liked that he wrote about his cats and seemed to love and admire them very much :)
"For the foxes"
Don't feel sorry for me.
I am a competent,
satisfied human being.
Be sorry for the others
who
fidget
complain
who
constantly
rearrange their
lives
like
furniture.
Juggling mates
and
attitudes
their
confusion is
constant
and it will
touch
whoever they
deal with.
Beware of them:
one of their
key words is
"love"
and beware of those who
only take
instructions from their
God
for they have
failed completely to
live their own
lives... "
January 22, 2008
Charles Bukowski, The Night Torn Mad with Footsteps (Black Sparrow, 2001)
Can a person be great and yet not too good at the same time?
I ask myself that pretty much every time I open another book of Charles Bukowski's poetry. Something in me quails, because I know in the roughly 300 pages before me (this one clocks in at just around 350), I'm going to see every rule of decent poetry writing broken. Usually multiple times on a page. "Show don't tell" goes completely out the window. Line breaks? Absolutely hideous. Avoid confessional poetry? Bukowski wallows in it. By all rights, I should be right there with the rest of the critics talking about how much the man's work sucks, how it's simply not poetry. A few examples should serve to be sufficient:
"I am such an unpopular human/being." (the first line of "It's Just Me")
"the house of horrors/the house of a thousand beatings/the house of brutality and unhappiness." ("A Drink to That")
The word "brutality" has no place in a poem. Ever. Any writing teacher I ever had, and the vast majority of critics, would look at any poems containing the word "brutality," slash a red line through it, and say "show, don't tell!"
And yet the simple fact of the matter is that Charles Bukowski has outsold every other American poet who penned a single line during the twentieth century. Ran rings around most of them; the sales of one Bukowski book probably dwarf the sales of the complete output of every Pulitzer prize winner, taken on their own. Something draws people to his books by the thousands.
Unfortunately, I doubt that it has anything to do with the truly brilliant flashes of image that shine through once every twenty pages or so, the places where the later work of Bukowski sounds like the older work of Bukowski (Burning in Water, Drowning in Flame, written between 1955 and 1970, is one of the finest books of poetry written in the last century). They are few, but some of them are so heart-stopping they make wading through the rest of it a joy:
"sometimes dogs/in the alley/play the violin better/then the privileged peacocks/who swim in butter./I speak now of young/dogs in/old rooms of peeling wallpaper and/the bathroom down the hall-always with/somebody in there." ("The Fish with Yellow Eyes and Green Fins Leaps into the Volcano")
I think it has more to do with the idea that a volume of Bukowski's poetry (and his novels, too) reads like a dime store self-help book. "Here, look at how bad my life is. Identify with a few things and use the rest to reflect on your own life and say, `hey, it's not that bad.'" Even the severest critic, when alone, probably finds a few of those image-less strophes to identify with and smile at. "the dark is empty;/most of our heroes have been/wrong." ("I Can't See Anything") No, it isn't poetry. But it's something. And it's something in the works of a self-confessed prudish misanthrope that reaches out to others.
I don't pretend to know what it is (Bukowski does, though-"'it's easy,' I said, `all I do is/lie as truthfully as possible.'" -"Good Pay"). And I force myself to admit that while they're getting what they're getting out of it, at least they're getting snatches of greatness in amongst the rubble. ***
Can a person be great and yet not too good at the same time?
I ask myself that pretty much every time I open another book of Charles Bukowski's poetry. Something in me quails, because I know in the roughly 300 pages before me (this one clocks in at just around 350), I'm going to see every rule of decent poetry writing broken. Usually multiple times on a page. "Show don't tell" goes completely out the window. Line breaks? Absolutely hideous. Avoid confessional poetry? Bukowski wallows in it. By all rights, I should be right there with the rest of the critics talking about how much the man's work sucks, how it's simply not poetry. A few examples should serve to be sufficient:
"I am such an unpopular human/being." (the first line of "It's Just Me")
"the house of horrors/the house of a thousand beatings/the house of brutality and unhappiness." ("A Drink to That")
The word "brutality" has no place in a poem. Ever. Any writing teacher I ever had, and the vast majority of critics, would look at any poems containing the word "brutality," slash a red line through it, and say "show, don't tell!"
And yet the simple fact of the matter is that Charles Bukowski has outsold every other American poet who penned a single line during the twentieth century. Ran rings around most of them; the sales of one Bukowski book probably dwarf the sales of the complete output of every Pulitzer prize winner, taken on their own. Something draws people to his books by the thousands.
Unfortunately, I doubt that it has anything to do with the truly brilliant flashes of image that shine through once every twenty pages or so, the places where the later work of Bukowski sounds like the older work of Bukowski (Burning in Water, Drowning in Flame, written between 1955 and 1970, is one of the finest books of poetry written in the last century). They are few, but some of them are so heart-stopping they make wading through the rest of it a joy:
"sometimes dogs/in the alley/play the violin better/then the privileged peacocks/who swim in butter./I speak now of young/dogs in/old rooms of peeling wallpaper and/the bathroom down the hall-always with/somebody in there." ("The Fish with Yellow Eyes and Green Fins Leaps into the Volcano")
I think it has more to do with the idea that a volume of Bukowski's poetry (and his novels, too) reads like a dime store self-help book. "Here, look at how bad my life is. Identify with a few things and use the rest to reflect on your own life and say, `hey, it's not that bad.'" Even the severest critic, when alone, probably finds a few of those image-less strophes to identify with and smile at. "the dark is empty;/most of our heroes have been/wrong." ("I Can't See Anything") No, it isn't poetry. But it's something. And it's something in the works of a self-confessed prudish misanthrope that reaches out to others.
I don't pretend to know what it is (Bukowski does, though-"'it's easy,' I said, `all I do is/lie as truthfully as possible.'" -"Good Pay"). And I force myself to admit that while they're getting what they're getting out of it, at least they're getting snatches of greatness in amongst the rubble. ***
April 10, 2020
This collection of urban, down-at-the-heels, down-on-your-luck poetry delivers way more than expected. Not only is it an enjoyable read, but it is also a source of insight into a layer of society that is seldom addressed in verse. For example, Bukowski, often referred to as the poet laureate of American low life, writes about a beloved old car in Eulogy—its shabby appearance, its mechanical quirks, how to coax it into running, his emotional attachment to this inanimate object. One of my favorites! He also bemoans the financial woes inherent in trying to live as a poet—made me think of Van Gogh, but without Theo as a safety net. Gamblers, whores, moochers are all here with the emotional baggage they carry, as well as that which they inflict upon others. So glad I tried this book!
December 7, 2007
I can just say read it this is the best damned book I own.
July 13, 2021
Excellent.
November 9, 2024
didn't really care for any of these. i like the way bukowski uses free verse for storytelling, but there was something too similar about all these poems. in the other collection i've read, there was variety in the topics/situations. this feels like the same story told over and over again in different fonts.
June 26, 2017
"we've got to raise taxes
so we can feed and
clothe and amuse
all those
in madhouses
and elsewhere
who believed in love
when there was so
little
there."
I think the best thing about Buk's words is how much they're crammed with truth. This one is a wonderful collection of truthful poems. These poems are very simple but real. An absolutely brilliant line at the end of every poem. The way he talked about cats is magnificent. He always described them as pure examples of real life. Also, this is mostly autobiographical. Buk would think that all what follows writing a poem is propaganda, nothing would replace what begins it all, no reading, no lectures, no teachers can make that equal to him. Which I think is true, but I'm thankful for having the chance for reading/listening to them. They examine one's feelings so well.
'A song with no end.' is the one I loved the most. Beautifully written and gritty.
"When Whitman wrote, "I sing the body electric"
I know what he
meant
I know what he
wanted:
to be completely alive every moment
in spite of the inevitable.
we can't cheat death but we can make it
work so hard
that when it does take
us
it will have known a victory just as
perfect as
ours."
so we can feed and
clothe and amuse
all those
in madhouses
and elsewhere
who believed in love
when there was so
little
there."
I think the best thing about Buk's words is how much they're crammed with truth. This one is a wonderful collection of truthful poems. These poems are very simple but real. An absolutely brilliant line at the end of every poem. The way he talked about cats is magnificent. He always described them as pure examples of real life. Also, this is mostly autobiographical. Buk would think that all what follows writing a poem is propaganda, nothing would replace what begins it all, no reading, no lectures, no teachers can make that equal to him. Which I think is true, but I'm thankful for having the chance for reading/listening to them. They examine one's feelings so well.
'A song with no end.' is the one I loved the most. Beautifully written and gritty.
"When Whitman wrote, "I sing the body electric"
I know what he
meant
I know what he
wanted:
to be completely alive every moment
in spite of the inevitable.
we can't cheat death but we can make it
work so hard
that when it does take
us
it will have known a victory just as
perfect as
ours."
March 4, 2015
No destaca ningún poema por encima de otros. Es decir, aquí no voy a encontrar un poema favorito. Pero es un todo, en conjunto es brutal, es lo que esperaba encontrar. Ni más ni menos.
Es más de lo mismo, sí, pero como dice Bukowski en uno de los últimos poemas: es lo que me parece más idóneo.
Es más de lo mismo, sí, pero como dice Bukowski en uno de los últimos poemas: es lo que me parece más idóneo.
March 24, 2020
3.5
A lo largo de mi vida, ya había leído bastantes poemas, pero sueltos, sabía que quería leer un compilado o libro completo sólo que nunca hallaba el libro que fuera de mi agrado para comenzar, y no tenía mucho conocimiento del género. Luego, un día lo encontré en la biblioteca de mi ciudad, y aunque ya había oído bastante sobre Bukowski, las opiniones eran bastante agridulces, así que no estaba muy seguro, pero aún así lo tomé.
El libro en sí, me llamó bastante la atención, se nota que (y aunque Bukowski odiaría que se dijera esto de él), sus escritos están fuertemente influenciados por el realismo y el existencialismo, creo que es una poesía muy fácil para comenzar, ya que no usa lenguaje muy complejo y es muy bueno a la hora de usar la realidad que lo rodea para ejemplificar sus reflexiones sobre la vida.
Por otro lado, no termino de entender todo el hype y misticismo que lo rodea como autor, entiendo que genere un poco de fascinación la forma en que describe la decadencia humana, pero creo que en la época actual esto ya no es tan extraño de ver en la cultura popular, aunque por suepuesto que entiendo que para su época debió haber sido revolucionario en algún sentido, otra cosas que no me terminó de convencer, es que como tenía poemas muy buenos, también los había sin sentido, en los que describía situaciones supremamente banales y arbitriarias lo que me hacía preguntarme qué tanto de lo que hacía era poesía y qué era simple aleatoridad.
Aunque me gustó mucho su forma de narrar sucesos, y el cómo escribe, como si se burlara de la prosa de los poemas reales es bastante curiosa e interesante, supongo que leeré más del autor, pero por ahora me agrada haber conocido algunas de sus obras así no me hubieran gustado del todo.
A lo largo de mi vida, ya había leído bastantes poemas, pero sueltos, sabía que quería leer un compilado o libro completo sólo que nunca hallaba el libro que fuera de mi agrado para comenzar, y no tenía mucho conocimiento del género. Luego, un día lo encontré en la biblioteca de mi ciudad, y aunque ya había oído bastante sobre Bukowski, las opiniones eran bastante agridulces, así que no estaba muy seguro, pero aún así lo tomé.
El libro en sí, me llamó bastante la atención, se nota que (y aunque Bukowski odiaría que se dijera esto de él), sus escritos están fuertemente influenciados por el realismo y el existencialismo, creo que es una poesía muy fácil para comenzar, ya que no usa lenguaje muy complejo y es muy bueno a la hora de usar la realidad que lo rodea para ejemplificar sus reflexiones sobre la vida.
Por otro lado, no termino de entender todo el hype y misticismo que lo rodea como autor, entiendo que genere un poco de fascinación la forma en que describe la decadencia humana, pero creo que en la época actual esto ya no es tan extraño de ver en la cultura popular, aunque por suepuesto que entiendo que para su época debió haber sido revolucionario en algún sentido, otra cosas que no me terminó de convencer, es que como tenía poemas muy buenos, también los había sin sentido, en los que describía situaciones supremamente banales y arbitriarias lo que me hacía preguntarme qué tanto de lo que hacía era poesía y qué era simple aleatoridad.
Aunque me gustó mucho su forma de narrar sucesos, y el cómo escribe, como si se burlara de la prosa de los poemas reales es bastante curiosa e interesante, supongo que leeré más del autor, pero por ahora me agrada haber conocido algunas de sus obras así no me hubieran gustado del todo.
February 27, 2025
"what was wrong was not
understood
and what was right didn’t
last."
understood
and what was right didn’t
last."
January 3, 2019
"suddenly I decide
right now that
tomorrow I'll add another screw to that loose license plate
because that's what keeps it and my world from falling
apart:
small desperate acts
like this enable one
to continue fighting the good fight after
waiting patiently through
the darkest night"
"the dark is empty;
most of our heroes have been
wrong"
"being young
helps get you through
many senseless and terrible
days.
being old
does
too."
"being very sick and being dead are
very much the same
in society's
eye."
"in other words
magic persists with
or without us
no matter how
we may try to
destroy it"
"and you will somehow
get through the slow days and the busy days and the dull
days and the hateful days and the rare days, all both so delightful
and so disappointing because
we are all so alike and all so different."
sometimes when you get the blues there's a reason
"it only takes 6 or 8 inept political leaders
or 8 or 10 artsy-fartsy writers, composers, and painters to
set the natural course of human progress
back
50 years
or more.
which may not seem like much to you
but it's over half your lifetime
during which time you're not going to be able to
hear, see, read or feel that
necessary gift of great art which
otherwise you could have experienced.
which may not seem tragic to you
but sometimes, perhaps, when you're not feeling so
good at
night or in the morning or at
noon,
maybe what you feel that's lacking is
what should be there for
you
but is not.
and I don't mean a blonde in
sheer pantyhose,
I'm talking about what gnaws at your guts
even when she's
there."
right now that
tomorrow I'll add another screw to that loose license plate
because that's what keeps it and my world from falling
apart:
small desperate acts
like this enable one
to continue fighting the good fight after
waiting patiently through
the darkest night"
"the dark is empty;
most of our heroes have been
wrong"
"being young
helps get you through
many senseless and terrible
days.
being old
does
too."
"being very sick and being dead are
very much the same
in society's
eye."
"in other words
magic persists with
or without us
no matter how
we may try to
destroy it"
"and you will somehow
get through the slow days and the busy days and the dull
days and the hateful days and the rare days, all both so delightful
and so disappointing because
we are all so alike and all so different."
sometimes when you get the blues there's a reason
"it only takes 6 or 8 inept political leaders
or 8 or 10 artsy-fartsy writers, composers, and painters to
set the natural course of human progress
back
50 years
or more.
which may not seem like much to you
but it's over half your lifetime
during which time you're not going to be able to
hear, see, read or feel that
necessary gift of great art which
otherwise you could have experienced.
which may not seem tragic to you
but sometimes, perhaps, when you're not feeling so
good at
night or in the morning or at
noon,
maybe what you feel that's lacking is
what should be there for
you
but is not.
and I don't mean a blonde in
sheer pantyhose,
I'm talking about what gnaws at your guts
even when she's
there."
September 11, 2021
Seems they'll never run out of stuff in the Bukowski vaults.
Still, I only recently realized that this was one, just about the only substantial published one, that I hadn't come across.
Definitely not his best stuff, but some pretty good stuff, and generally Bukowski's weakest is still better than most others' strongest, imho.
Still, I only recently realized that this was one, just about the only substantial published one, that I hadn't come across.
Definitely not his best stuff, but some pretty good stuff, and generally Bukowski's weakest is still better than most others' strongest, imho.
June 30, 2008
Came across this the other day and realized I wasn't familiar with Bukowski's writing--I knew about his rep, but I wanted to see if it was deserved. A lot of hipster icons are more style over substance.
Verdict? New fan.
Verdict? New fan.
August 30, 2007
everytime i come back to read one of my favorite bits in this book, it continues to impress. and always hits a nerve. jesus christ, everyone, please, read this. it'll do you good.
September 11, 2009
I loooove Bukowski's poetry. It's real, hard-hitting, & deeply sad.
April 25, 2019
Okuduğum şiirlerinde kendimi bulamıyorum bazen ama nedense kendimle yüzleşiyorum. Ya da tam tersi, tarif edemiyorum. Ya beni anlatıyor, ya da paralel evrendeki beni, bilmiyorum. Bazen de tam bir yabancı gibi hissediyorum. Dillendiremediklerimi dillendiriyor sanki, benim üslubum dışında başka bir dil ile, ama beni vuruyor her seferinde. Bir yandan tüm şiir kitaplarını bitirmek istiyorum, bir yandan şiir kitapları hiç bitmesin istiyorum. Onunla oturup sohbet etmek ister miydim karar veremiyorum, muhtemelen ağzına gelen küfürü sayardı bana, belki uzaktan seyrederdim gün be gün, takip edebilirdim, yanındaki masaya oturup kulak kabartırdım konuşmalarına. Onu da bilmiyorum.
-----Sayfa 81-----
Yukarı, Aşağı ve Çepeçevre
bazen alınganlaşırım
nerede olduğumu bilemem,
birkaç adım tökezler, yitik hissederim
kendimi.
tanıdığım herkes benden daha
uzun
daha zeki
daha müşfikmiş
gibi gelir bana,
ve daha az çirkin
elbette
ama asla
uzun sürmez
bu ruh hali
etrafıma sıkı bir
bakış atarım,
çepeçevre
sert bir bakış
ve aklım başıma
gelir
ama
bir süre için
sadece.
______________
-----sayfa 67-----
Bir Tanım
gece sisini delen
bir ışıktır aşk
banyoya giderken
üstüne bastığınız bira şişesi
kapağıdır aşk
sarhoş olduğunuzda bulamadığınız
anahtardır aşk
on yılda bir gerçekleşen
şeydir aşk
ezilmiş bir kedidir aşk
köşedeki pes etmiş gazete
satıcısıdır aşk
diğer insanın mahvettiğini
sandığın şeydir aşk
zırhlı savaş gemileriyle birlikte
kaybolmuş olan şeydir aşk
çalan telefondur aşk
aynı ses ya da başka
bir ses ama asla doğru ses
değil
ihanettir aşk
evsizlerin ara sokaklarda alev alev
yanmasıdır aşk
çeliktir aşk
karafatmadır aşk
posta kutusudur aşk
eski bir Los Angeles
otelinin çatısına yağan
yağmurdur aşk
tabuttaki babandır aşk
(senden nefret eden baban)
45.000 kişi seyrederken
ayağa kalkmaya çalışan
bacağı kırık attır aşk
ıstakoz gibi haşlanma
biçimimizdir aşk
söylediğimiz bütün
yalanlardır aşk
bulamadığın
piredir aşk
ve bir sivrisinektir aşk
50 el bombacısıdır aşk
boş yatak sürgüsüdür
aşk
San Quentin’de bir ayaklanmadır aşk
bir tımarhanedir aşk
sinekli bir sokakta duran
eşektir aşk
boş bar taburesidir aşk
parçalara kıvrılmakta olan
bir Hindenburg filmidir aşk
çığlığı hala yankılanan andır aşk
rulet masasında
Dostoyeski’dir aşk
yerde sürünen
şeydir aşk
bir yabancıya dayanmış dans eden
karındır aşk
bir somun ekmek çalan
yaşlı kadındır aşk
ve çok fazla ve
fazlasıyla erken kullanılan
bir sözcüktür aşk.
Charles Bukowski
-----Sayfa 81-----
Yukarı, Aşağı ve Çepeçevre
bazen alınganlaşırım
nerede olduğumu bilemem,
birkaç adım tökezler, yitik hissederim
kendimi.
tanıdığım herkes benden daha
uzun
daha zeki
daha müşfikmiş
gibi gelir bana,
ve daha az çirkin
elbette
ama asla
uzun sürmez
bu ruh hali
etrafıma sıkı bir
bakış atarım,
çepeçevre
sert bir bakış
ve aklım başıma
gelir
ama
bir süre için
sadece.
______________
-----sayfa 67-----
Bir Tanım
gece sisini delen
bir ışıktır aşk
banyoya giderken
üstüne bastığınız bira şişesi
kapağıdır aşk
sarhoş olduğunuzda bulamadığınız
anahtardır aşk
on yılda bir gerçekleşen
şeydir aşk
ezilmiş bir kedidir aşk
köşedeki pes etmiş gazete
satıcısıdır aşk
diğer insanın mahvettiğini
sandığın şeydir aşk
zırhlı savaş gemileriyle birlikte
kaybolmuş olan şeydir aşk
çalan telefondur aşk
aynı ses ya da başka
bir ses ama asla doğru ses
değil
ihanettir aşk
evsizlerin ara sokaklarda alev alev
yanmasıdır aşk
çeliktir aşk
karafatmadır aşk
posta kutusudur aşk
eski bir Los Angeles
otelinin çatısına yağan
yağmurdur aşk
tabuttaki babandır aşk
(senden nefret eden baban)
45.000 kişi seyrederken
ayağa kalkmaya çalışan
bacağı kırık attır aşk
ıstakoz gibi haşlanma
biçimimizdir aşk
söylediğimiz bütün
yalanlardır aşk
bulamadığın
piredir aşk
ve bir sivrisinektir aşk
50 el bombacısıdır aşk
boş yatak sürgüsüdür
aşk
San Quentin’de bir ayaklanmadır aşk
bir tımarhanedir aşk
sinekli bir sokakta duran
eşektir aşk
boş bar taburesidir aşk
parçalara kıvrılmakta olan
bir Hindenburg filmidir aşk
çığlığı hala yankılanan andır aşk
rulet masasında
Dostoyeski’dir aşk
yerde sürünen
şeydir aşk
bir yabancıya dayanmış dans eden
karındır aşk
bir somun ekmek çalan
yaşlı kadındır aşk
ve çok fazla ve
fazlasıyla erken kullanılan
bir sözcüktür aşk.
Charles Bukowski
August 22, 2019
Üniversite yıllarımda beni "Yeraltı Edebiyatı" ve "Kirli Gerçekçilik" ile tanıştıran pis moruğu, Bukowski'yi nasıl sevmem?
Ben mezun oldum ve aradan yıllar geçti. Bukowski'ye uzun bir mola vermiştim. Geçenlerde kütüphanemde olan bu şiir kitabını elime aldım ve Bukowski'nin şiirlerini okurken, nostalji rüzgârıyla, yine aynı tadı aldım.
............
az önce
"şafak sökmek üzere
telefon kablosuna tünemiş kuşlar
bekliyorlar
sessiz bir Pazar sabahının altısında
ben dünün unutulmuş
sandviçini yerken.
bir ayakkabı köşede
dik duruyor,
diğeri
yan yatmış.
evet, bazı hayatlar harcanmak için yaratılmış." sf 21
.............
kitapta en sevdiğim şiir, buram buram "dirty realism" kokan "bitmek bilmeyen okul bahçeleri" oldu.
"asla merhamet dilenmedik" derken, hem iş hayatındaki patron ve amirlere hem de okul hayatının vazgeçilmezi olan "zorba çocuklara" bir başkaldırıda bulunur Chinaski. Daha önce hiç olmadığı kadar ciddi, politik ve hatta sosyalisttir belki. Gururludur da. Başı diktir.Yüreğini okuruna en çok açtığı, çocukluk travmalarını ve yaralarını en samimi gösterdiği şiirlerdendir belki. Kendisiyle dalga geçen bir Bukowski değil, yıllar yılı acı çekmiş ve bu acının bilincinde olan, acının yoğurduğu ve şekillendirdiği biri olarak çıkar karşımıza:
"dünya yaptığını yaparken
merhamet dilenmedik
ve ertesi gün sınıftaydık mutlaka
gün sektirmeden,
ne kadar sakin ve güvenliydi kızlar oysa
sıralarında dimdik
karatahta ve tebeşir dolu odada
biz bütün dehşete ve kavgalara rağmen
acımasız küçümseyici tavrımızı inatla sürdürüp
bizi kucaklayacak daha iyi bir şeyi beklerken
o asla unutulmayacak
ilkokul dünyasında." sf 121
Ben mezun oldum ve aradan yıllar geçti. Bukowski'ye uzun bir mola vermiştim. Geçenlerde kütüphanemde olan bu şiir kitabını elime aldım ve Bukowski'nin şiirlerini okurken, nostalji rüzgârıyla, yine aynı tadı aldım.
............
az önce
"şafak sökmek üzere
telefon kablosuna tünemiş kuşlar
bekliyorlar
sessiz bir Pazar sabahının altısında
ben dünün unutulmuş
sandviçini yerken.
bir ayakkabı köşede
dik duruyor,
diğeri
yan yatmış.
evet, bazı hayatlar harcanmak için yaratılmış." sf 21
.............
kitapta en sevdiğim şiir, buram buram "dirty realism" kokan "bitmek bilmeyen okul bahçeleri" oldu.
"asla merhamet dilenmedik" derken, hem iş hayatındaki patron ve amirlere hem de okul hayatının vazgeçilmezi olan "zorba çocuklara" bir başkaldırıda bulunur Chinaski. Daha önce hiç olmadığı kadar ciddi, politik ve hatta sosyalisttir belki. Gururludur da. Başı diktir.Yüreğini okuruna en çok açtığı, çocukluk travmalarını ve yaralarını en samimi gösterdiği şiirlerdendir belki. Kendisiyle dalga geçen bir Bukowski değil, yıllar yılı acı çekmiş ve bu acının bilincinde olan, acının yoğurduğu ve şekillendirdiği biri olarak çıkar karşımıza:
"dünya yaptığını yaparken
merhamet dilenmedik
ve ertesi gün sınıftaydık mutlaka
gün sektirmeden,
ne kadar sakin ve güvenliydi kızlar oysa
sıralarında dimdik
karatahta ve tebeşir dolu odada
biz bütün dehşete ve kavgalara rağmen
acımasız küçümseyici tavrımızı inatla sürdürüp
bizi kucaklayacak daha iyi bir şeyi beklerken
o asla unutulmayacak
ilkokul dünyasında." sf 121
April 2, 2021
Night Torn Mad with Footsteps is one of my favorite poetry books, and reading it has allowed me to expand as a person. Overall, it goes over the author's life and how he deals with scenarios and his views on the world. There are many quotes that I took from this book and applied to my daily life and I'm sure you'll find some as well. Bukowski is one of the few that write without a filter, everything is raw and powerful like a punch to the gut. He hits you with harsh reality, making you laugh, fume, think, and cry. It's truly emotional and inspiring, creating a sense of hope and prosperity for the reader. Every poem is about less than a page long so reading the book can bequick. I prefer to read a poem and think about what Bukowiski meant by it, what he is trying to portray, and what message he is sending the reader. There is great wisdom in this book, which is never a bad thing. It also allows a person to grow and become an individual, which is very important if you want to stand out from a crowd. This book is offensive, but not nearly as bad as his other works.
-Review by NPLD Teen Volunteer Simon--
-Review by NPLD Teen Volunteer Simon--
July 24, 2020
The style is very simple, no depth, general run of the mill life. Not bad or good just not my taste.
The point I really find issue with is mr Bukowski's perspective. The reductio to objects everyone he talks about while continuously painting himself as an outsider made me feel like i was reading a book of poetry written by Tyler Durden, or worse, someone who would idolize Tyler Durden. The blatant racism and sexism don't sit well with me, even though its casual and not malicious. The only resonance I found in these pieces was the appreciation of music, as even his descriptions of cats make me think he doesn't truly know how to capture the essence of a living being without bouncing it off himself. Tiny reprives he finds in music scatter through the collection, and feel still quite shallow, like the lifeline to the "good life" he has dreamt of, not in any actual appreciation for classical musicianship or composition.
I understand that poetry is subjective. I do not like this subjectively. Objectively, it's fine; but that's not what I read poetry for.
The point I really find issue with is mr Bukowski's perspective. The reductio to objects everyone he talks about while continuously painting himself as an outsider made me feel like i was reading a book of poetry written by Tyler Durden, or worse, someone who would idolize Tyler Durden. The blatant racism and sexism don't sit well with me, even though its casual and not malicious. The only resonance I found in these pieces was the appreciation of music, as even his descriptions of cats make me think he doesn't truly know how to capture the essence of a living being without bouncing it off himself. Tiny reprives he finds in music scatter through the collection, and feel still quite shallow, like the lifeline to the "good life" he has dreamt of, not in any actual appreciation for classical musicianship or composition.
I understand that poetry is subjective. I do not like this subjectively. Objectively, it's fine; but that's not what I read poetry for.
October 30, 2017
As a fan i would say that it had both amazing and mediocre poems, nonetheless, i enjoyed it.
"death is not the problem; waiting around for it is."
"to endure takes some luck, some knowledge and a reasonable sense of humor"
"sometimes you climb out of bed in the morning and you think, I’m not going to make it,
but you laugh inside
remembering all the times you’ve felt that way,"
"but since it felt neither good nor bad,
I accepted the situation and waited."
"I am such an unpopular human being.
I should have been born a frog,"
"I don’t seem to fit in anywhere. in cafes, restaurants,
I say strange things to the waiters and waitresses, nothing ugly,
just rather airy
and not quite befitting."
"death is not the problem; waiting around for it is."
"to endure takes some luck, some knowledge and a reasonable sense of humor"
"sometimes you climb out of bed in the morning and you think, I’m not going to make it,
but you laugh inside
remembering all the times you’ve felt that way,"
"but since it felt neither good nor bad,
I accepted the situation and waited."
"I am such an unpopular human being.
I should have been born a frog,"
"I don’t seem to fit in anywhere. in cafes, restaurants,
I say strange things to the waiters and waitresses, nothing ugly,
just rather airy
and not quite befitting."
May 23, 2020
"love is an old woman
stealing a loaf of bread
and love is a word used
too much and
much
too soon."
This collection of poems were published long after Charles Bukowski's death. I think, there are way too many texts in that volume. There are quite many that do not have a special quality, but when Bukowski was at his best, he delivered some smashing lines and verses that few others could write. Meaning, if the idea had been to publish his best work, this book could have been a lot shorter. Otherwise, it is also alright to publish the collected works of this extraordinary man who lived his life in motels and hotels with his extraordinary ability to give a voice to the underprivileged.
stealing a loaf of bread
and love is a word used
too much and
much
too soon."
This collection of poems were published long after Charles Bukowski's death. I think, there are way too many texts in that volume. There are quite many that do not have a special quality, but when Bukowski was at his best, he delivered some smashing lines and verses that few others could write. Meaning, if the idea had been to publish his best work, this book could have been a lot shorter. Otherwise, it is also alright to publish the collected works of this extraordinary man who lived his life in motels and hotels with his extraordinary ability to give a voice to the underprivileged.
December 22, 2024
For better or worse, I love him, and I’ve loved him since I was 17, so I don’t really see that changing for me at any point. As always, he said things in his poetry that could only be said by someone a little more selfish and mean and too tired about humanity to care he finally said what needed to be said. Have I read him too much that sometimes certain lines come off repetitive? Yes, but it just wasn’t a problem for how I could love what he was saying. I read this all year before finally finishing it because it felt good whenever I took a break from another book (especially the terrible ones I read this year) to read how people could fuck off in another poem from him.
June 8, 2021
Bukowski, the raving mad poet of the west coast, most popular with young men with little experience with reading poetry in the 1970s and 1980s. I surprised myself while reading this as I'm also reading a collection of stories by Sherman Alexie and, except for the details, they could have been written by the same man. Or at least a writer with an identical voice. Both men seem to have studied writing at the feet of Hemingway. Although both men have a much better sense of humor than Papa did.
Oh, and Bukowski was still publishing into this century. Even though he died in 1994.
Oh, and Bukowski was still publishing into this century. Even though he died in 1994.
May 5, 2023
The best Bukowski collection I have read thus far, and there are a good few of those. This one has a consistent quality which is blatantly missing from most of his bibliography. This is how one writes.
One of my favorites, titled "it was just a little while ago"
almost dawn
blackbirds on the telephone wire
waiting
as I eat yesterday's
forgotten sandwich
at 6 a.m.
on a quiet Sunday morning.
one shoe in the corner
standing upright
the other laying on its
side.
yes, some lives were made to be
wasted.
One of my favorites, titled "it was just a little while ago"
almost dawn
blackbirds on the telephone wire
waiting
as I eat yesterday's
forgotten sandwich
at 6 a.m.
on a quiet Sunday morning.
one shoe in the corner
standing upright
the other laying on its
side.
yes, some lives were made to be
wasted.
November 4, 2025
A Song With No End
When Whitman wrote, “I sing the body electric”
I know what he
Meant
I know what he
Wanted:
To be completely alive every moment
In spite of the inevitable.
We can’t cheat death but we can make it
Work so hard
That when it does take
Us
It will have known a victory
As perfect as
Ours.
Favs from this one include:
2 deaths
Counterpoint
Progress
Two cats asleep downstairs and death itself no problem
Long sad story
Repeat
It is good to know when you are done
A song with no end
Gamblers all
One learns
When Whitman wrote, “I sing the body electric”
I know what he
Meant
I know what he
Wanted:
To be completely alive every moment
In spite of the inevitable.
We can’t cheat death but we can make it
Work so hard
That when it does take
Us
It will have known a victory
As perfect as
Ours.
Favs from this one include:
2 deaths
Counterpoint
Progress
Two cats asleep downstairs and death itself no problem
Long sad story
Repeat
It is good to know when you are done
A song with no end
Gamblers all
One learns
February 4, 2022
I can see why a few of these didn’t make the cut to be published while he was live, hence the 4 stars, not five. I still really connect with the dirty grit and Bukowski offers. His sensory descriptions that then lead to poignant emotions, however lonely, angry or uncomfortable, continue to draw me in like a warm hug of places I’ve been and things I’ve felt. I love that a man who couldn’t connect with much (hating television, movies, and often himself) still had such a connection to cats.
August 5, 2019
Bukowski was a poet who let himself speak truthfully as he typed. He didn't sugar-coat. He didn't fancy his words up. He didn't censor himself. He didn't put on a show. What he created with these poems is the true art of writing and poetry: honesty. Bukowski made poetry for the gritty, the outsiders, the rebellious, and the for the ones who need to know that they are not in this life alone.
June 10, 2021
Some decent entries in this, another posthumous collection, but the main value here is understanding the author as a man in his later years, coming to terms with his own mortality, as opposed to reading the collection for "good poetry". I wouldn't recommend this as an entry point to Buk's work, but to a completist, it's worth taking a look at.
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