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Come On In!: New Poems
The fourth of five new books of unpublished poems from the late, great, Charles Bukowski, America's most imitated and influential poet.
Recent features in The New Yorker and on NPR's "Morning Edition" have proven that interest in Bukowski and his works is ever present.
Charles Bukowski is considered the original.
Praise for Bukowski:
"Wordsworth, Whitman, William Carlos Williams and The Beats in their respective generations moved poetry toward a more natural language. Bukowski moved it a little farther." –– LA Times Book Review, 1994
Recent features in The New Yorker and on NPR's "Morning Edition" have proven that interest in Bukowski and his works is ever present.
Charles Bukowski is considered the original.
Praise for Bukowski:
"Wordsworth, Whitman, William Carlos Williams and The Beats in their respective generations moved poetry toward a more natural language. Bukowski moved it a little farther." –– LA Times Book Review, 1994
279 pages, Hardcover
Published January 3, 2006
65 people are currently reading
1208 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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May 30, 2025
Opening thoughts concerning this collection:
I wonder what this unpublished archive Bukowski left behind looks like. Do you suppose there was a filing system, or a cache? Or was everything scattered about on the floor, beer and wine stains and cigarette ash obscuring words, a few pages stuck in cracks of his desk, maybe a lingering poem up on a blade of the rickety ceiling fan (which was still softly rotating)?
These are ‘new poems’, but everything is new when it is first written. I don’t know over how long a period these were composed, but I have a feeling they were actually towards the end of Bukowski’s life. His common themes were present, but they seemed even more urgent and stressed. I say this because of messages like this:
of course,
anything can kill you
and something eventually
will.
And this:
who’s that? nobody, kid,
somebody dead
like Chopin or our old mailman
or a dog,
And this:
“I’m not panicking,” I said. “death doesn’t
mean shit to me. this is coming from some
place that I don’t understand.”
It’s dangerous to present excerpts from poems. Who knows what the context is? But this sort of nihilism and death-obsessed simplicity is all-permeating and so being, it is what I will primarily be focusing on.
Some thoughts (or rather explanations) on some selected favorite poems of mine:
and poems have it too: don’t worry, Dostoevsky, it begins as he proceeds to list several things that have been around for a long time, including himself. What this means, I am not quite sure. Is it a comment on Dostoevsky’s irrelevance (not to suggest he is)? Is it a note on immortality and the lasting element of great things? Are these the most pretentious speculations on a single, short poem ever documented? The answer to at least one of these questions is probably ‘yes’.
hello there!: A short expression on being prepared for death with an analogy about women’s kisses. Who among us cannot relate?
here we go again: The title of this one really says it all. Revisiting death and relating it to women and the inexplicable ability to stay happy despite everything that should bring him down. I don’t know if I possess this ability (with the exception of the moments of surging euphoria that never seem to last), but it’s something to consider when one’s non-existence is preponderant in the mind.
alone in this chair: Ok, so most of Bukowski’s titles say it all. Hell is everywhere and all we can do is have another cigarette.
the “Beats”: Who doesn’t like a good berating of Kerouac and co.?
hello and goodbye:The mundane and tedious tasks of life. Everything is stupid. Diseases exist. Is that not enough to loath existence? As he appropriately points out:
there’s no escaping
this,
we just have to take it,
accept it—
or like most—
not think about it.
at all.
I find that last option to be hideously, depressingly difficult. Ostensibly, so did he.
my cats:I’ve always had dogs, not cats. But this spectacular adulation of these creatures could evoke respect from anyone.
As promised, more on death:
I will discuss some of the last poems collectively as they seem to prepare us, more and more, for death. For our deaths, but also, retrospectively, for his (from our points of view), and most of all, for his own, regardless of if anyone would read a single word of this collection. Seeing as how titles can explain a lot about his poems, I will list some of these last ones, and encourage you to read them (unless you can’t handle the pain and musings along with which you can practically hear the accompanying sad-sax music).
Here they are: the disease of existence, two nights before my 72nd birthday, have we come to this?, older, closing time, everything hurts, cancer, blue, twilight musings
The titles alone speak horrible truths; inescapable truths on which we, as mortal beings, cannot dwell, but absolutely must. One can feel the man who wrote these slipping away as the pages run closer and closer to the back cover. Love him, loathe him, everyone can empathize with everyone (and Bukowski was among everyone) because we will all be gone, now or then, sooner or later. We are all ”practicing, polishing up for that end”. But take heart, we can live on through our work. We can be as lively and wild as Beethoven is now, 100 years after his death. Every breathing thing that can grasp the concept of death should find this collection prescient, and even if you think it shouldn’t qualify as poetry, it is absolutely poetic.
What is the only answer worthy of consideration when we idiotically and pathetically and solipsistic-ally ask ‘ why me?’ when our time is soon to come? It is, of course, ’why not?’
Is this too depressing for some? Almost certainly. But I take a sort of paradoxical comfort in it all, and Bukowski, I think did as well, and now that he is dead, we can talk this way about him, and that’s how he remains lively and wild, like Beethoven. Doom and gloom are essential, but Bukowski did not grab us by the wrist, drag us into the darkness and then die without at least guiding us in the general direction out. There is both room and warrant for such recondite—I won't say acquiescence, but—recognition in the pallid face of the inevitable. Read this collection, and see if you agree. Read this collection if you are at all like me.
Thank you Bukowski, thanks you dead, old fart, for helping me cope with existence.
I wonder what this unpublished archive Bukowski left behind looks like. Do you suppose there was a filing system, or a cache? Or was everything scattered about on the floor, beer and wine stains and cigarette ash obscuring words, a few pages stuck in cracks of his desk, maybe a lingering poem up on a blade of the rickety ceiling fan (which was still softly rotating)?
These are ‘new poems’, but everything is new when it is first written. I don’t know over how long a period these were composed, but I have a feeling they were actually towards the end of Bukowski’s life. His common themes were present, but they seemed even more urgent and stressed. I say this because of messages like this:
of course,
anything can kill you
and something eventually
will.
And this:
who’s that? nobody, kid,
somebody dead
like Chopin or our old mailman
or a dog,
And this:
“I’m not panicking,” I said. “death doesn’t
mean shit to me. this is coming from some
place that I don’t understand.”
It’s dangerous to present excerpts from poems. Who knows what the context is? But this sort of nihilism and death-obsessed simplicity is all-permeating and so being, it is what I will primarily be focusing on.
Some thoughts (or rather explanations) on some selected favorite poems of mine:
and poems have it too: don’t worry, Dostoevsky, it begins as he proceeds to list several things that have been around for a long time, including himself. What this means, I am not quite sure. Is it a comment on Dostoevsky’s irrelevance (not to suggest he is)? Is it a note on immortality and the lasting element of great things? Are these the most pretentious speculations on a single, short poem ever documented? The answer to at least one of these questions is probably ‘yes’.
hello there!: A short expression on being prepared for death with an analogy about women’s kisses. Who among us cannot relate?
here we go again: The title of this one really says it all. Revisiting death and relating it to women and the inexplicable ability to stay happy despite everything that should bring him down. I don’t know if I possess this ability (with the exception of the moments of surging euphoria that never seem to last), but it’s something to consider when one’s non-existence is preponderant in the mind.
alone in this chair: Ok, so most of Bukowski’s titles say it all. Hell is everywhere and all we can do is have another cigarette.
the “Beats”: Who doesn’t like a good berating of Kerouac and co.?
hello and goodbye:The mundane and tedious tasks of life. Everything is stupid. Diseases exist. Is that not enough to loath existence? As he appropriately points out:
there’s no escaping
this,
we just have to take it,
accept it—
or like most—
not think about it.
at all.
I find that last option to be hideously, depressingly difficult. Ostensibly, so did he.
my cats:I’ve always had dogs, not cats. But this spectacular adulation of these creatures could evoke respect from anyone.
As promised, more on death:
I will discuss some of the last poems collectively as they seem to prepare us, more and more, for death. For our deaths, but also, retrospectively, for his (from our points of view), and most of all, for his own, regardless of if anyone would read a single word of this collection. Seeing as how titles can explain a lot about his poems, I will list some of these last ones, and encourage you to read them (unless you can’t handle the pain and musings along with which you can practically hear the accompanying sad-sax music).
Here they are: the disease of existence, two nights before my 72nd birthday, have we come to this?, older, closing time, everything hurts, cancer, blue, twilight musings
The titles alone speak horrible truths; inescapable truths on which we, as mortal beings, cannot dwell, but absolutely must. One can feel the man who wrote these slipping away as the pages run closer and closer to the back cover. Love him, loathe him, everyone can empathize with everyone (and Bukowski was among everyone) because we will all be gone, now or then, sooner or later. We are all ”practicing, polishing up for that end”. But take heart, we can live on through our work. We can be as lively and wild as Beethoven is now, 100 years after his death. Every breathing thing that can grasp the concept of death should find this collection prescient, and even if you think it shouldn’t qualify as poetry, it is absolutely poetic.
What is the only answer worthy of consideration when we idiotically and pathetically and solipsistic-ally ask ‘ why me?’ when our time is soon to come? It is, of course, ’why not?’
Is this too depressing for some? Almost certainly. But I take a sort of paradoxical comfort in it all, and Bukowski, I think did as well, and now that he is dead, we can talk this way about him, and that’s how he remains lively and wild, like Beethoven. Doom and gloom are essential, but Bukowski did not grab us by the wrist, drag us into the darkness and then die without at least guiding us in the general direction out. There is both room and warrant for such recondite—I won't say acquiescence, but—recognition in the pallid face of the inevitable. Read this collection, and see if you agree. Read this collection if you are at all like me.
Thank you Bukowski, thanks you dead, old fart, for helping me cope with existence.
July 3, 2020
there’s no hell like your own
hell and there’s nobody else
ever
to share it with
you.
you might as well be the only
person left on earth.
sometimes you feel as if you
were.
and maybe you are.
hell and there’s nobody else
ever
to share it with
you.
you might as well be the only
person left on earth.
sometimes you feel as if you
were.
and maybe you are.
May 17, 2020
Bukowski Reflective
"Welcome to my wormy hell," Charles Bukowski (1920 --1994) invites the reader at the outset of this collection of posthumously published poetry. Bukowski, a writer who became famous for his novels, stories, and poems depicting the raw, down-and-out life left a great deal of unpublished work at his death, and it has continued to appear in several volumes.
"Come on In!" is a mixed collection which includes some good poems. Bukowski explores themes that will be familiar to readers: life at the track, boxing, drinking, his experiences with women, loneliness and the desire to be alone, life on the edge, the love of animals, particularly cats, and the writing of poetry. The collection shows Bukowski's sardonic, wry and laconic humor.
The theme of death pervades this collection as Bukowski, old and ill, shows a full awareness of his own mortality. In addition, Bukowski reflects upon his own success as a writer. In his young days, the subject of most of Bukowski's writing, he lived the life of a drunk in the underclass. Beginning in 1971 when he received a stipend from John Martin of Black Sparrow press to devote himself to writing, Bukowski gradually became commercially successful and wealthy. In the poem "you can't tell a turkey by its feathers", which recounts how Bukowski's father thought he wouldn't amount to anything, Bukowski boasts that "Last year I paid/ $59,000 income/tax." Many of the poems involve Bukowski's success and recognition, as he compares his late life with his earlier days.
The poems are unrhymed and unmetered and generally written in short stanzas. Most of them are short, but in some instances Bukowski tells stories in his poems, frequently set out as dialogues or conversations. In this book, the poems are arranged in four broad divisions: "I live near the/slaughterhouse/and am ill/ with thriving"; "she looked at me and asked/did you?/did you/did you?"; "it's a lonely world/of frightened people"; "I will never have' a house in the valley/ with little stone men/ on the lawn".
The poems I enjoyed in the collection include Bukowski's reflections on his past relationship with women. In "red hot mail" Bukowski contrasts his state as a successful poet with his younger years when women would not look at him. He writes:
"I only wish now some lass had
chanced upon me then
when I so needed her hair blowing in my
face
and her eyes smiling into mine,
when I so needed
that wild music
and that wild female willingness
to be
undone."
Among the many other poems which show Bukowski in a meditative, thoughtful mood are "alone again", "to the ladies no longer here" and "here we go again." Bukowski's poem "a close call" shows all too clearly the fine line that separated sanity and madness in his life. The poem "the nude dancer" consists of an elderly Bukowski's portrayal of an exotic dancer which complements nicely an earlier poem on this theme describing an encounter in Bukowski's youth, "Love poem to a stripper". One of the acclaimed poems in this collection is "the 'Beats'" in which Bukowski contrasts his own writing to that of the beat writers and concludes:
"my opinion remains the
same: writing is done
one person
at a time
one place
at a time
and all the gatherings
of
the
flock
have very little
to do
with
anything."
But I think the best writing in "Come on In!" is in the final section of the book. Bukowski offers meditations on his own terminal illness and on the meaning of his life which are moving indeed. The poems I enjoyed in this part include "my cats", "two nights before my 72nd birthday", and "closing time" in which Bukowski discusses his love for Beethoven, "this composer/now dead for over 100/years,/ who's younger and wilder/than you are/than I am." Bukowski observes that "the centuries are sprinkled/with rare magic/with divine creatures/who help us get past the common/ and/extraordinary ills/ that beset us."
The final poem in the book "mind and heart" is a valedictory poem as Bukowski faces death. "Unaccountably we are alone/forever alone/ and it was meant to be/that way", he begins. He reflects upon his life and finds that he has developed some hard-won serenity of "peace of mind and heart." He advises his readers to "read/what I've written/then/forget it/all." And again:
"drink from the well
of your self
and begin
again."
Robin Friedman
"Welcome to my wormy hell," Charles Bukowski (1920 --1994) invites the reader at the outset of this collection of posthumously published poetry. Bukowski, a writer who became famous for his novels, stories, and poems depicting the raw, down-and-out life left a great deal of unpublished work at his death, and it has continued to appear in several volumes.
"Come on In!" is a mixed collection which includes some good poems. Bukowski explores themes that will be familiar to readers: life at the track, boxing, drinking, his experiences with women, loneliness and the desire to be alone, life on the edge, the love of animals, particularly cats, and the writing of poetry. The collection shows Bukowski's sardonic, wry and laconic humor.
The theme of death pervades this collection as Bukowski, old and ill, shows a full awareness of his own mortality. In addition, Bukowski reflects upon his own success as a writer. In his young days, the subject of most of Bukowski's writing, he lived the life of a drunk in the underclass. Beginning in 1971 when he received a stipend from John Martin of Black Sparrow press to devote himself to writing, Bukowski gradually became commercially successful and wealthy. In the poem "you can't tell a turkey by its feathers", which recounts how Bukowski's father thought he wouldn't amount to anything, Bukowski boasts that "Last year I paid/ $59,000 income/tax." Many of the poems involve Bukowski's success and recognition, as he compares his late life with his earlier days.
The poems are unrhymed and unmetered and generally written in short stanzas. Most of them are short, but in some instances Bukowski tells stories in his poems, frequently set out as dialogues or conversations. In this book, the poems are arranged in four broad divisions: "I live near the/slaughterhouse/and am ill/ with thriving"; "she looked at me and asked/did you?/did you/did you?"; "it's a lonely world/of frightened people"; "I will never have' a house in the valley/ with little stone men/ on the lawn".
The poems I enjoyed in the collection include Bukowski's reflections on his past relationship with women. In "red hot mail" Bukowski contrasts his state as a successful poet with his younger years when women would not look at him. He writes:
"I only wish now some lass had
chanced upon me then
when I so needed her hair blowing in my
face
and her eyes smiling into mine,
when I so needed
that wild music
and that wild female willingness
to be
undone."
Among the many other poems which show Bukowski in a meditative, thoughtful mood are "alone again", "to the ladies no longer here" and "here we go again." Bukowski's poem "a close call" shows all too clearly the fine line that separated sanity and madness in his life. The poem "the nude dancer" consists of an elderly Bukowski's portrayal of an exotic dancer which complements nicely an earlier poem on this theme describing an encounter in Bukowski's youth, "Love poem to a stripper". One of the acclaimed poems in this collection is "the 'Beats'" in which Bukowski contrasts his own writing to that of the beat writers and concludes:
"my opinion remains the
same: writing is done
one person
at a time
one place
at a time
and all the gatherings
of
the
flock
have very little
to do
with
anything."
But I think the best writing in "Come on In!" is in the final section of the book. Bukowski offers meditations on his own terminal illness and on the meaning of his life which are moving indeed. The poems I enjoyed in this part include "my cats", "two nights before my 72nd birthday", and "closing time" in which Bukowski discusses his love for Beethoven, "this composer/now dead for over 100/years,/ who's younger and wilder/than you are/than I am." Bukowski observes that "the centuries are sprinkled/with rare magic/with divine creatures/who help us get past the common/ and/extraordinary ills/ that beset us."
The final poem in the book "mind and heart" is a valedictory poem as Bukowski faces death. "Unaccountably we are alone/forever alone/ and it was meant to be/that way", he begins. He reflects upon his life and finds that he has developed some hard-won serenity of "peace of mind and heart." He advises his readers to "read/what I've written/then/forget it/all." And again:
"drink from the well
of your self
and begin
again."
Robin Friedman
January 17, 2018
Favourite poetry book by Bukowski; interestingly enough, the one he wanted to be published right after his death. I remember a lot of poems I liked, being the best ones the one about the amazing Chinese poet Li Bai and the very last one of the book, but the general vibe of the book was great all along, greater than with any other of his books of poems.
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!
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!
March 11, 2022
there's no hell like your own
hell and there's nobody else
ever
to share it with
you.
you might as well be the only
person left on earth.
sometimes you feel as if you
were.
and maybe you are.
This collection is an archive of poetry left to published after his death. A certain exhaustion lies his voice in these later verses, yet an air of youthful mettle still lingers. Possibly my favourite collection of Bukowski.
hell and there's nobody else
ever
to share it with
you.
you might as well be the only
person left on earth.
sometimes you feel as if you
were.
and maybe you are.
This collection is an archive of poetry left to published after his death. A certain exhaustion lies his voice in these later verses, yet an air of youthful mettle still lingers. Possibly my favourite collection of Bukowski.
June 29, 2007
THE most wonderful poems about the shitiest shit i've ever read, EVER.
August 31, 2021
These poems were left by Bukowski to be published after he died. Some of them are great but many I feel retread the same old ground he examined his entire career. The final poems here are what I wanted. A man staring into the void, getting ready for the end he's always joked about. Poems like "Cancer" are what I wanted:
half past nowhere
alone
in the crumbling
tower of myself
stumbling in this the
darkest
hour
the last gamble has been
lost
as I
reach
for
bone
silence.
These poems only come near the end and are brutal in their honesty. I'm glad I got to read them but much of the collection feels like b-sides and inferior versions of better poems that examine the same things in more interesting ways. I suppose dying is like that. Looking back over the same geography of memory analysing old memories for the nth time. Coming up short of saying anything positive, then being left with the sour feeling of death sneaking in.
half past nowhere
alone
in the crumbling
tower of myself
stumbling in this the
darkest
hour
the last gamble has been
lost
as I
reach
for
bone
silence.
These poems only come near the end and are brutal in their honesty. I'm glad I got to read them but much of the collection feels like b-sides and inferior versions of better poems that examine the same things in more interesting ways. I suppose dying is like that. Looking back over the same geography of memory analysing old memories for the nth time. Coming up short of saying anything positive, then being left with the sour feeling of death sneaking in.
August 15, 2023
I have become drunk, destroyer of livers.
Ik heb een Bukowski-break nodig...
Ik heb een Bukowski-break nodig...
July 8, 2023
Now that time seems all mine
and no one calls me for lunch or dinner,
now that I can stay to watch
how a cloud loosens and loses its color,
how a cat walks on the roof
in the immense luxury of a prowl, now
that what waits for me every day
is the unlimited length of a night
where there is no call and no longer a reason
to undress in a hurry to rest inside
the blinding sweetness of a body that waits forme,
now that the morning never has a beginning
and silently leaves me to my plans,
to all the cadences of voice,
now suddenly I would like prison.
and no one calls me for lunch or dinner,
now that I can stay to watch
how a cloud loosens and loses its color,
how a cat walks on the roof
in the immense luxury of a prowl, now
that what waits for me every day
is the unlimited length of a night
where there is no call and no longer a reason
to undress in a hurry to rest inside
the blinding sweetness of a body that waits forme,
now that the morning never has a beginning
and silently leaves me to my plans,
to all the cadences of voice,
now suddenly I would like prison.
September 21, 2018
Another great volume of poetry from Bukowski. These are all from the later part of his life and after reading many volumes, I can say the later part of his life produced his best poems. There isn’t anything else to say. I love the man.
March 6, 2025
drink from the well
of your self
and begin
again
of your self
and begin
again
September 1, 2025
I’m on a bit of a Bukowski run. Another beautiful anthology.
“Read what I have written then forget it all”
“Read what I have written then forget it all”
Read
December 15, 2013'' Our educational system tells us that we can all be big ass winners''. - The Crunch, Charles Bukowski.
You'll either love Bukowski or you'll deeply despise him.
Book is littered with index markers.
Would describe his poetry as - unconventional, truthful, provocative , funny.
Also recommend watching Barfly to understand Bukowski.
You'll either love Bukowski or you'll deeply despise him.
Book is littered with index markers.
Would describe his poetry as - unconventional, truthful, provocative , funny.
Also recommend watching Barfly to understand Bukowski.
April 19, 2021
what will you write about? he asks.
you no longer live with whores, you no
longer engage in barroom brawls, what
will you write about?
he seems to think that I’ve manufactured
a life to suit my typewriter
and if my life gets good
my writing will get bad.
I tell him that trouble will always
arrive, never worry about
that.
you no longer live with whores, you no
longer engage in barroom brawls, what
will you write about?
he seems to think that I’ve manufactured
a life to suit my typewriter
and if my life gets good
my writing will get bad.
I tell him that trouble will always
arrive, never worry about
that.
February 24, 2015
Well I fuckin wept through the last two pages. Haven't cried from a book since The Man Who Loved Clowns, 15 years ago. Sad to see it go, grateful that it happened. The man lived it and shared it til the end, and it sings and stings.
Read
July 24, 2020Perhaps this collection would best be read aloud late at night by someone who still smokes, is half-drunk on cheap booze, and has instrumental jazz playing softly in the background. However, despite lacking that atmospheric setting, I enjoyed these verses even more than those in the first Bukowski book I read, “Night Torn Mad With Footsteps.” His voice is so distinctive, his topics so unexpected that reading his poetry is a revelation of a different world—his world of literary art noir. Thank goodness, there are several more collections of his work in print/digitally available. Bukowski can become a habit.
Read
September 30, 2020An ugly book.
And yet among his many nihilistic fantasies, Bukowski wrote the most wonderful poem about Beethoven I have ever read. I sent it to my father and he agreed (though I would likely offend him if I sent him any other Bukowski poems). I suppose for that single poem the whole book is worth the read. A single statement of beauty from a heart fascinated with ugliness is far more interesting and new than someone obsessed with beauty saying much of the say same. I would definitely say buyer beware unless you are already familiar with Bukowski's style.
And yet among his many nihilistic fantasies, Bukowski wrote the most wonderful poem about Beethoven I have ever read. I sent it to my father and he agreed (though I would likely offend him if I sent him any other Bukowski poems). I suppose for that single poem the whole book is worth the read. A single statement of beauty from a heart fascinated with ugliness is far more interesting and new than someone obsessed with beauty saying much of the say same. I would definitely say buyer beware unless you are already familiar with Bukowski's style.
November 11, 2021
"as gentle as a butterfly
fluttering in the
murdered light
you came through here
like fire singing
and when it was over
the walls came down
the flags went up
and love was finished.
you left behind a pair of shoes
an old purse
and some birthday and
Xmas cards
from me all
held together
by a green rubber
band.
all well and good enough,
I suppose,
because
when your lover is gone,
thank the gods,
the silence is
final."
fluttering in the
murdered light
you came through here
like fire singing
and when it was over
the walls came down
the flags went up
and love was finished.
you left behind a pair of shoes
an old purse
and some birthday and
Xmas cards
from me all
held together
by a green rubber
band.
all well and good enough,
I suppose,
because
when your lover is gone,
thank the gods,
the silence is
final."
January 16, 2024
I was looking for that book in Greece and I couldn't find it for several months. When I finally found it available, I purchased it with no second thought. I really enjoyed it till its last page. Time well spent!
May 11, 2021
Uwielbiam ten poetycki turpizm i ocieranie się o wulgarną seksualność.
January 9, 2024
ending with “no leaders, please” , “my song” , and “mind and heart” has really got me feeling simultaneous existential dread and hope on this rainy Tuesday
March 29, 2023
to everyone who said bukowski’s poetry was way better than his prose— you were right. peace and love
May 14, 2008
Someone told me once that all modern poetry was a rip off of Bukowski. What he meant was the short line style that Buk uses, but I was unaware that while at the time I was writing in a similar short line style, who Buk was.
I was handed this book upon leaving a writers retreat in Missouri, and enjoyed a lot of it in the airport, but concluded finally that Buk was basically a gambler, a drunk, and had never been pleased by a woman.
Though Buk does have some bitterly funny lines, I wouldn't chalk him up to what every modern poet aspires to be, and if it is, well . . . there's always alcoholics anonymous, gamblers anonymous, prozac, and womens shoes - - size 14
I like the poems, just that they are highly overrated
I was handed this book upon leaving a writers retreat in Missouri, and enjoyed a lot of it in the airport, but concluded finally that Buk was basically a gambler, a drunk, and had never been pleased by a woman.
Though Buk does have some bitterly funny lines, I wouldn't chalk him up to what every modern poet aspires to be, and if it is, well . . . there's always alcoholics anonymous, gamblers anonymous, prozac, and womens shoes - - size 14
I like the poems, just that they are highly overrated
May 21, 2017
Reminiscencia. De eso se trata. Esta colección publicada por orden de él, después de su muerte, se trata más que todo de la exposición de su vida; de semblante anectódico, Charles proporciona consejos sobre la imortalidad, poesía, y vida a los futuros lectores de su obra.
Para mí, es uno de esos libros que tiene menos violencia, menor explicitez, pero tiene un fin determinado: aquel de poder servir de consejero para las generaciones venideras. Hay bastantes párrafos que puedes hallar y vas a encontrar sumamente significativos. Te darás cuenta de que se cansó de vivir, de que la máquina de escribir siguió hasta el final, y que a fin de cuentas, no importa cuánto hayas logrado, o qué hayas hecho, nunca debes de perder quién eres, esa esencia inmutable.
Para mí, es uno de esos libros que tiene menos violencia, menor explicitez, pero tiene un fin determinado: aquel de poder servir de consejero para las generaciones venideras. Hay bastantes párrafos que puedes hallar y vas a encontrar sumamente significativos. Te darás cuenta de que se cansó de vivir, de que la máquina de escribir siguió hasta el final, y que a fin de cuentas, no importa cuánto hayas logrado, o qué hayas hecho, nunca debes de perder quién eres, esa esencia inmutable.
January 3, 2015
i was really hesitant to read this since i had tried his novels a few times and quickly gave up. i enjoyed most of this poetry book though, different from the feminist fiction that i had been emerged for the latter half of 2014, there is something that does feel very meaningful and poignant in these poems. even if you can't find the meaningful parts, or find it the opposite, then a lot of it quick, witty and sharply written
December 20, 2007
I read some of this and really liked it. I need to read more. His poetry never fails to point out some normal everyday truth that needed to be pointed out.
March 21, 2010
More great Bukowski
Favorite was No Leaders, Please
NEED to read some more.
Favorite was No Leaders, Please
NEED to read some more.
October 27, 2021
The one and only star is for “Mind and Heart”
January 11, 2018
POETA, POR ENCIMA DE TODO
Quien pueda sorprenderse de esto, es porque no ha profundizado lo suficiente en la obra de Charles Bukowski: Bukowski es, fundamentalmente, por encima de todo, un prodigioso poeta. Cierto es que, como narrador, atesora una novela capital, Cartero, y otras notables como Factotum y Mujeres; que La senda del perdedor es una obra de aquel “otro Bukowski” que podría haber sido, más reposado, académico, con gusto por las descripciones y por el narrar correcto. Después, Pulp ya es una parodia de sí mismo, tal vez mejor de lo que parece, pero novela muy por debajo de sus posibilidades, y Hollywood no pasa de resultar una suerte de biografía más o menos entretenida y algo desganada. Entre todo aquello, un puñado de cuentos y relatos breves realmente notables, junto a una sobreproducción de textos cortos, unas veces con menor y otras con mayor fortuna en su escatología. Y por encima de todo ello, poemas y poemas, toneladas de poemas sencillamente formidables.
Este es el caso de ¡Adelante!, colección de poemas de la época final de Bukowski, que se han publicado, al parecer por exigencia del propio autor, de forma póstuma en 2006, quizás con la esperanza o la intención de regalar a sus seguidores (que somos legión) algunos textos nuevos de una manera sorprendente, cuando ya se pensaba que nada más había quedado del viejo Charles. Bienvenido a mi infierno agusanado, arranca el primer verso del primer poema, que da título al libro, ¡Adelante! Está claro, es el Bukowski en estado puro, aireando sus delirios de alcohol y destrucción, quién nos sale al encuentro, de nuevo, con esa fuerza capaz de conmovernos y esas estructuras de poemas cerrados en redondo una y otra vez, con finales que son como ganchos, como uppercuts que demuelen el poema, que lo colocan en relieve y que lo hacen resonar de nuevo en la cabeza del lector, gracias a esas inflexiones finales tan características de su autor, y por cierto, tan complejas de llevar a cabo.
Humillante contemplación, dosis de metaliteratura, reflexiones sobre el propio poema en sí, autoconciencia de la muerte, y una gran atención a los elementos que conforman el acto de escribir, son la materia poetizable en este volumen. No es una materia ajena al autor en otros libros, viene, fundamentalmente, a ser la misma, las mismas angustias que se repiten en su imaginario y que dan lugar a poemas crudos, tan sensibles en su aparente insensibilidad, tan victoriosos en toda su profunda derrota y tan amargos en sus amarguras.
Como un juego de cajas chinas, estos poemas contienen una reflexión sobre la necesidad y el drama de hacer poesía, y esa reflexión contiene un manual de literatura, y ese manual poético de literatura contiene, al fondo, al propio Bukowski que, a su vez, contiene un puñado de poemas conmovedores que, a su vez, albergan a Cummings; y así, se alcanza a Cummings a través de Bukowski y, desde Cummings, después, se regresa otra vez a Bukowski y se cierra toda la reflexión metaliteraria al leer estas poesías.
Un excelente compendio de poesía póstuma, un poco a la baja si se compara con otros libros de Bukowski, pero igual de emocionante, y para muestra, me quedaré con un poema de esta selección, titulado “Mi canción”:
consternación
de sobras,
dolor
en abundancia
días inquietos
y
noches
insomnes
siempre peleando
con todo tu
corazón y tu alma
para no
fracasar en
eso de vivir.
¿quién podría
pedir
más?
Así es la poesía de Bukowski, un continuo refocilarse en la amargura, en el fracaso existencial tan sólo salvado por la poesía. Y por eso, nosotros, sus lectores, lo salvamos cada día, salvamos a Charles con cada lectura de un texto suyo, y nos acercamos, poco a poco, con cada poema, a la nuestra, al borde de nuestra propia salvación que gotea en cada reflexión poética, porque no hay infierno como tu propio/ infierno y /nunca /hay nadie más /para compartirlo contigo, nos avisa en “Hola y Adiós”.
A este libro de poesía póstumo se debe llegar como a un fondeadero tras haber leído los poemarios fundamentales de su autor. Es un corolario, un libro testimonial que alberga muy buenos poemas, pero que necesitan del habernos nutrido previamente de la obra anterior. Un Bukowski pleno de potencia y acidez, magnífico en los poemas vitriólicos de quién, como titula una de sus composiciones aquí seleccionadas, es el puto amo de la jodienda. Pues eso.
Quien pueda sorprenderse de esto, es porque no ha profundizado lo suficiente en la obra de Charles Bukowski: Bukowski es, fundamentalmente, por encima de todo, un prodigioso poeta. Cierto es que, como narrador, atesora una novela capital, Cartero, y otras notables como Factotum y Mujeres; que La senda del perdedor es una obra de aquel “otro Bukowski” que podría haber sido, más reposado, académico, con gusto por las descripciones y por el narrar correcto. Después, Pulp ya es una parodia de sí mismo, tal vez mejor de lo que parece, pero novela muy por debajo de sus posibilidades, y Hollywood no pasa de resultar una suerte de biografía más o menos entretenida y algo desganada. Entre todo aquello, un puñado de cuentos y relatos breves realmente notables, junto a una sobreproducción de textos cortos, unas veces con menor y otras con mayor fortuna en su escatología. Y por encima de todo ello, poemas y poemas, toneladas de poemas sencillamente formidables.
Este es el caso de ¡Adelante!, colección de poemas de la época final de Bukowski, que se han publicado, al parecer por exigencia del propio autor, de forma póstuma en 2006, quizás con la esperanza o la intención de regalar a sus seguidores (que somos legión) algunos textos nuevos de una manera sorprendente, cuando ya se pensaba que nada más había quedado del viejo Charles. Bienvenido a mi infierno agusanado, arranca el primer verso del primer poema, que da título al libro, ¡Adelante! Está claro, es el Bukowski en estado puro, aireando sus delirios de alcohol y destrucción, quién nos sale al encuentro, de nuevo, con esa fuerza capaz de conmovernos y esas estructuras de poemas cerrados en redondo una y otra vez, con finales que son como ganchos, como uppercuts que demuelen el poema, que lo colocan en relieve y que lo hacen resonar de nuevo en la cabeza del lector, gracias a esas inflexiones finales tan características de su autor, y por cierto, tan complejas de llevar a cabo.
Humillante contemplación, dosis de metaliteratura, reflexiones sobre el propio poema en sí, autoconciencia de la muerte, y una gran atención a los elementos que conforman el acto de escribir, son la materia poetizable en este volumen. No es una materia ajena al autor en otros libros, viene, fundamentalmente, a ser la misma, las mismas angustias que se repiten en su imaginario y que dan lugar a poemas crudos, tan sensibles en su aparente insensibilidad, tan victoriosos en toda su profunda derrota y tan amargos en sus amarguras.
Como un juego de cajas chinas, estos poemas contienen una reflexión sobre la necesidad y el drama de hacer poesía, y esa reflexión contiene un manual de literatura, y ese manual poético de literatura contiene, al fondo, al propio Bukowski que, a su vez, contiene un puñado de poemas conmovedores que, a su vez, albergan a Cummings; y así, se alcanza a Cummings a través de Bukowski y, desde Cummings, después, se regresa otra vez a Bukowski y se cierra toda la reflexión metaliteraria al leer estas poesías.
Un excelente compendio de poesía póstuma, un poco a la baja si se compara con otros libros de Bukowski, pero igual de emocionante, y para muestra, me quedaré con un poema de esta selección, titulado “Mi canción”:
consternación
de sobras,
dolor
en abundancia
días inquietos
y
noches
insomnes
siempre peleando
con todo tu
corazón y tu alma
para no
fracasar en
eso de vivir.
¿quién podría
pedir
más?
Así es la poesía de Bukowski, un continuo refocilarse en la amargura, en el fracaso existencial tan sólo salvado por la poesía. Y por eso, nosotros, sus lectores, lo salvamos cada día, salvamos a Charles con cada lectura de un texto suyo, y nos acercamos, poco a poco, con cada poema, a la nuestra, al borde de nuestra propia salvación que gotea en cada reflexión poética, porque no hay infierno como tu propio/ infierno y /nunca /hay nadie más /para compartirlo contigo, nos avisa en “Hola y Adiós”.
A este libro de poesía póstumo se debe llegar como a un fondeadero tras haber leído los poemarios fundamentales de su autor. Es un corolario, un libro testimonial que alberga muy buenos poemas, pero que necesitan del habernos nutrido previamente de la obra anterior. Un Bukowski pleno de potencia y acidez, magnífico en los poemas vitriólicos de quién, como titula una de sus composiciones aquí seleccionadas, es el puto amo de la jodienda. Pues eso.
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