Sull'amore

by Charles Bukowski, Simona Viciani (Translator)

Questa raccolta inedita di poesie attraversa tutte le sfaccettature dell’amore secondo Charles Bukowski: l’amicizia, la riconoscenza verso il suo editore, l’affetto per la sua unica figlia, la devozione per i maestri; e, ovviamente, il sesso, la passione e il desiderio nei confronti di tutte le donne, dagli incontri di una notte a quelli che gli hanno cambiato la vita. E poi l’amore per i libri, la musica classica, i cavalli, l’alcol… Sono versi che raccontano relazioni reali, quotidiane, senza nascondere il narcisismo, l’egoismo e le miserie che a volte contraddistinguono questo sentimento, ma riscattandolo così da quella patina di retorica che troppo spesso lo circonda. Traboccante di nuda oscenità e sarcasmo abrasivo, ma anche di squarci di saggezza e profonda fragilità, Bukowski conduce il lettore a una nuova definizione: «amore non è altro che un faro di notte che fende la nebbia / amore è una chiave di casa tua persa quando sei sbronzo / amore è tutti i gatti spiaccicati dell’universo / amore è una sigaretta col filtro ficcata in bocca e accesa dalla parte sbagliata».

Genres: Poetry, Classics, Fiction, American, Romance, Love, Ebooks

466 pages, Kindle Edition

First published January 1, 2016

About the author

Henry 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.

Reviews

[Emily B · Rating 5 out of 5]

It’s been a while since I’ve read Bukowski and this felt like visiting an old friend. His poems are straight talking, sometimes vulgar but always real

[Joshie · Rating 4 out of 5]

What I love about Bukowski is what others mostly hate: he is offensive, appalling, and unrefined. But underneath all the unrelenting cheekiness, candid sexual musings, and impertinent rudeness is a tender, honest, and resonating meditation on people's multifaceted, ever-changing, complicated emotions (no matter how dirty). On Love is packed with sex, women, and booze (as expected of him) but they're also intermingled with thoughts on love in its many forms — paternal, platonic, romantic — and it is also love in memories, love lost and forgotten, love as an idea, and love in its most disgusting, selfish, hilarious, solitary, ridiculous and affecting sentences and punctuation marks which, I feel, sets Bukowski aside with other poets. Bukowski's lyricism is unapologetic, sentimental and this is one of his most lovely collections.

(His poem an acceptance slip made me shed a few tears).

A couple of unforgettable lines —

** "I look to my left and see a man picking his nose;
he slides the residue under a
chair; quite true, I think, there's your
truth, and there's your love:
snot hardening under a chair during
hot nights when hell comes up and simply
spits all over
you."
— from ALL THE LOVE OF ME GOES OUT TO HER (A.M.)

** "Linda, you brought it to me,
when you take it away
do it slowly and easily
make it as if I were dying in my sleep instead of in
my life, amen."
— from THE SHOWER

** "she wants me to write a love poem
but I think if people
can't love each other's
assholes

and farts and shits and terrible parts
just like they love
the good parts,
that ain't complete love."
— from THE BEST LOVE POEM I CAN WRITE AT THE MOMENT

Personal favourites: layover, shoes, for Jane: with all the love I had, which was not enough, for Jane, notice, my real love in Athens, poem to my daughter, 2 carnations, the best love poem I can write at the moment, love poem to Marina, the first love, a love poem, for all the women I know, a definition, an acceptance slip, one for old snaggle-tooth, I made a mistake, yes, we get along, eulogy, the strong man, the blue bird, the dressmaker, confessions and all the love of me goes out to her (for A.M.)

[Ali · Rating 4 out of 5]

I am not really a fan of poetry. There is a sense of vagueness and too personal a subjectivity in poetry that can be alien to my mind. I usually feel my time better served reading simple and straightforward prose, fictional or otherwise (life has enough mysteries as it is).

This recent Valentine I just said what the hell, let’s give it a try and I stumbled on Bukowski. (Actually, a friend sent me a recording of Bukowski reading his own verses. Also, I’m not really big on Valentine either even though it has taken such firm roots in Iran which might give the impression to an outside observer that somehow, we’ve come up with it on our own. But the general mood of the occasion tempted me in the end.)

At first I thought I can’t connect with it. But some of his pieces struck a chord with me. It probably has to do with Bukowski shunning shallow optimism and carefree illusions of a happy life. There is a sense of dirty realism in his style that sucks me in and strangely, gives me comfort when I get tired of my days being a bit dull. I don’t characterize myself as an optimist but I hate nihilism even more. Why suffer more (if you can help it) when this life has an unending supply of misery to throw at you?

I’m a rookie in poetry so I’m not gonna write a lot and I’m still trying to figure out if it’s for me. But there is one thing that I like to say of Bukowsky. He was kind of eccentric and through his poetry, tried to get away from the madness and rush of everyday life with all its empty promises. Getting away from society and living on my own, is not something that I like for myself. But there is a liberating power in that nonconformity and by reading him, I can let that part of me breathe a bit without worrying that my life is gonna go to shambles. I guess all of us feel that need when life becomes too much. And when you read enough of the guy, you see (at least I did) that with all his gloomy outlook, he still didn’t discard the redemptive power of love. So maybe it wasn’t a bad choice for a Valentine read after all.

One of my favorites:

confessions

waiting for death

like a cat

that will jump on the

bed

I am so very sorry for

my wife

she will see this

stiff

white

body

shake it once, then

maybe

again:

“Hank!”

Hank won’t

answer.

it’s not my death that

worries me, it’s my wife

left with this

pile of

nothing.

I want to

let her know

though

that all the nights

sleeping

beside her

even the useless

arguments

were things

ever splendid

and the hard

words

I ever feared to

say

can now be

said:

I love

you.

I’ll probably read more Bukowski, now and then.

***

Edit: Due to the aforementioned ignorance on my part in the field of poetry (and lots of more fields), I mistook Tom O'Bedlam's voice for that of Bukowski. I listened to Bukowski’s poems read by O'Bedlam in a recording on Youtube.

[Makis Dionis · Rating 5 out of 5]

Έβαλα ένα ποτό κι άφησα το νερό να τρέχει στην μπανιέρα
υπήρχαν 5000 μπαρ στην πόλη
κ θα πήγαινα σε 25 απ'αυτά
για να βρω την Μ

Α ρε καριόλη Χανκ
Τόσοι ποιητές αλλά τόση λίγη ποίηση

[Sofia · Rating 4 out of 5]

Αν αγαπάτε τον Μπουκοβσκι, χορταίνετε Μπουκοβσκι με αυτό το βιβλίο.

[Christos · Rating 4 out of 5]

Συλλογή ποιημάτων από διαφορετικές χρονικές περιόδους της ζωής του Μπουκόφσκι, με την γνωστή και αναμενόμενη θεματολογία για όποιον έχει γνωρίσει το έργο του. Δεν ήξερα, ή δε θυμόμουν, ότι είχε κόρη. Σε αυτά τα ποιήματα, αλλά και σε μερικά για κάποιες σημαντικές γυναίκες της ζωής του, διαγράφεται ένας διαφορετικός, τρυφερός Μπουκόφσκι.

[Maria Bikaki · Rating 4 out of 5]

Το γαλαζοπούλι

Έχω ένα γαλαζοπούλι στην καρδιά μου
Που θέλει έξω να βγει
Μα είμαι πολύ σκληρός μαζί του,
Λέω, κάτσε μέσα εκεί, κανέναν
Δε θα αφήσω να σε δει..
Έχω ένα γαλαζοπούλι στην καρδιά μου που θελει έξω να βγει
Μα του χύνω ουίσκι και ρουφάω τον καπνό απ’ το τσιγάρο
Και οι πόρνες και οι μπάρμεν και οι παντοπώλες
Ποτέ δεν ξέρουνε πως είναι μέσα εκεί.
Έχω ένα γαλαζοπούλι στην καρδιά μου που θέλει
Έξω να βγει μα είμαι πολύ σκληρός μαζί του,
Λέω κάτσε κάτω, θέλεις να με κάνεις χάλια;
Θες να διαλύσεις τις δουλειές;
Θέλεις να τινάξεις στον αέρα τις πωλήσεις των βιβλίων μου στην Ευρώπη;
Έχω ένα γαλαζοπούλι στην καρδιά μου
Που θέλει έξω να βγει
Μα εγώ είμαι έξυπνος, το βγάζω έξω μόνο
Κάτι νύχτες που κοιμούνται όλοι
Του λέω, ξέρω πως είσαι μέσα εκεί,
Μη λυπάσαι τότε.
Μετά το βάζω πίσω πάλι,
Μα το τραγούδι λιγοστεύει εκεί μέσα, δεν το έχω αφήσει ακόμα
Να πεθάνει και κοιμόμαστε παρέα έτσι στη δική μας συμφωνία που είναι μυστική
Κι είναι τόσο ωραία, που κάνει κάθε άντρα να κλάψει,
Μα εγώ δεν κλαίω. Μήπως εσυ;

[Peycho Kanev · Rating 4 out of 5]

Confessions

waiting for death
like a cat
that will jump on the
bed

I am so very sorry for
my wife

she will see this
stiff
white
body

shake it once, then
maybe
again:

“Hank!”

Hank won’t
answer.

it’s not my death that
worries me, it’s my wife
left with this
pile of
nothing.

I want to
let her know
though
that all the nights
sleeping
beside her
even the useless
arguments
were things
ever splendid

and the hard
words
I ever feared to
say
can now be
said:

I love
you.

[cypress · Rating 1 out of 5]

This is a book written by a vindictive, pathetic, miserable old man. The collection might have been redeemed if the poetry was actually any good - but it's not, it's terribly basic and the messages are dehumanizing of women and uninteresting and some of it is legitimately just some old man ranting about something nobody but him finds interesting with line breaks shoved in randomly. The only poems that I can even begin to appreciate are the ones where he talks about his daughter - even then, they are written and sound like generic journal entries or something one might put into a letter for their daughter. I have a hard time believing that Charles Bukowski actually had sex as many times as he leads the reader to believe in his poetry.

[Kriti · Rating 4 out of 5]

3.75

[Olga Kowalska (WielkiBuk) · Rating 5 out of 5]

Poezja miłosna w zbiorze „O miłości” Charlesa Bukowskiego jest dokładnie taka, jak sam wybitny amerykański pisarz i poeta – miejscami świńska, czasami obleśnie brudna, a czasami zaskakująco romantyczna, jednak zawsze trafiająca prosto do serca czytelnika.

Wiadomo, nie każdemu uda się pokochać tego upartego, zapijaczonego świntucha jakim jest Charles Bukowski, ale kto już przyzwyczai się do tego parchatego oblicza trolla, ten z przyjemnością posłucha jego romantycznego głosu. „O miłości”, w świetnie oddającym charakter Buka przekładzie Michała Kłobukowskiego, może być inspiracją dla spragnionych poezji nietuzinkowej, może być ukojeniem, może być wstępem do wielkiej bukowej przygody. Przepadłam między słowami i wzruszyłam się, chociaż wcale wzruszeń nie planowałam. Ale czasami najprostsze chwile, te prozaiczne i takie zwyczajne w swoim niechlujstwie, uchwycone pod lupą dociekliwego pióra potrafią złapać za serce bardziej niż najwykwintniejszy poemat czy sonet. I przekonacie się sami – kiedy ktoś Was kiedyś zapyta czym jest miłość z zaskoczeniem odpowiecie słowami Bukowskiego:

miłość to wszystko o czym powiedzieliśmy
że nią nie jest
/”definicja”, przeł. Michał Kłobukowski/

[Iulia]

This was not like anything I’ve read. There were poems I didn’t like and relate to. However, there were quite a few that I really liked. His writing is honest and raw. He describes his experience with love at different times of his life, his relationships and lovers. It’s like listening to an old man being so honest to and so true to himself pouring out his soul and driving himself crazy. His poems have a distinct athmospere and the people he writes about are so alive and raw.

[Παύλος · Rating 4 out of 5]

Μια ιδιαίτερη συλλογή ποιημάτων όπως άλλωστε και κάθε έργο του!
Συγκεντρώνει ποιήματα από όλη την λογοτεχνική του περίοδο και το ιδιαίτερο χαρακτηριστικό είναι πως περιλαμβάνει ποιήματα για πρόσωπα αγαπημένα της ζωής του όπως η κόρη του αλλά και οι γυναίκες που τον συντρόφευσαν για κάποιο διάστημα.
Στις σελίδες 42 και 200, μερικές από τις πιο χαρακτηριστικές του φράσεις...

[Lulufrances · Rating 4 out of 5]

OH BUKOWKSIIIIII!!
I don't intend on ever getting tattoos, but if I did, and if I needed beautiful, mad one-liners, I'd look right here. Ugh.
I feel like the summer of 2016 is going to be very Bukowski-heavy and I ain't even mad about it :)

[Lisa Marie Segarra · Rating 2 out of 5]

I don't know why this is called "On Love" because all it's really about is sex and loathing. There are a few nice poems here and there, but mostly all I kept thinking as I read was, 'Bukowski's not that deep. He's just an asshole with a drinking problem."

[Diego Beaumont · Rating 5 out of 5]

Bukowski en estado puro

[Sara Kamjou · Rating 3 out of 5]

یک حال دیوونهٔ خوبی داشت.
----------------------
یادگاری از کتاب:
تو در میان خاطراتم
به آهستگی قدم برمی‌داری
درست در همان تابستانی که یک‌باره زمستان شد.
...
باشکوه‌ترین حس
دربارهٔ زیبایی،
این است که
بفهمی دیگر وجود ندارد.
...
این هم سبک ماست
که زندگی را نادیده بگیریم.
...
بقیه مردم به دنبال
هوای خوب،
خوش‌شانسی
و آرزوهای خوب هستند
برای من اما
زندگی معمولی
بدون هیچ دردسری کافی‌ست.
...
درست مثل
یک فیلم قدیمی
که ۳۵ سال پیش ساخته شده است
و هیچکس آن را ندیده
یا غیر از من کسی آن را نمی‌فهمد.
البته قطعاً
منتقدان مثل همیشه
آن را نقد خواهند کرد.
...
اگر زندگی
به تو روی خوش نشان نداد
به نوشتن پناه ببر.
...
بالاخره
یک روز می‌فهمی که مرده‌ای
و مرا با خاطراتت تنها گذاشته‌ای.
...
در قلب هر انسان،
یک جای خالی وجود دارد که
هرگز پر نمی‌شود.
جایی که
حتی در بهترین لحظات زندگی نیز پر نمی‌شود.
...
تو سایه‌ای هستی که
یک آن می‌آیی
و رد می‌شوی.
...
درون قلبم
پرنده‌ای آبی است
که می‌خواهد بیرون بزند
من اما سخت می‌گیرم
می‌گویم:
همان‌جا بمان
نمی‌خواهم کسی تو را ببیند.

[Ray Flores · Rating 2 out of 5]

The good thing about poetry books is that they’re really short. The problem is, I didn’t like most of them, even though I’m familiar with Bukowski’s work.

He is the kind of unapologetic person that I always feel admiration for, and his humor is so appealing to me, that I had several laughs with his previous works, hence, the main reason why I wanted to read his poems about love and affection. Now, I was expecting to have more sensitive, raw poems, and all I had was his usual self: talking about whores, old partners, and alcohol abuse.

Though, I must say that my favorite poems were the ones written for his daughter. I think that he was a simple man that had a hedonist life, but when his daughter came to the picture, he became somehow better. I can feel he really loved her, and she felt the same despite all his flaws and his peculiar life style.

[Shelby · Rating 1 out of 5]

He writes about nothing. Having a p**** and a drinking problem doesn't necessarily mean you have anything worthwhile to say.

[Xenia Germeni · Rating 5 out of 5]

Η γιορτή με το πάθος και το μίσος, με τα αμέτρητα δωράκια πλησίασε. Τί να του κάνεις δώρο ; Τί θα ήθελες να της χαρίσεις που να είναι όλο αυτό που είσαι ; Εγώ σου προτείνω ένα βιβλίο και ένα φιλί ή τέλος πάντων και μια σοκολάτα από το περίπτερο. Μια αλλιώτικη ποιητική συλλογή γλυκόπικρη, τρυφερή, μεθυσμένη, άγρια, παθιασμένη, με παρελθόν, παρόν και μέλλον. Ο Τσαρλς Μπουκόφσκι ο πιο άγριος και παθιασμένος ποιητής και συγγραφέας της Αμερικής, σε ρουφάει μέσα από τους ερωτικούς στίχους του σε μεθυσμένα σοκάκια, σε κρεβάτια με γυναίκες που αγάπησες ή αγαπάς, σε περιπέτειες της μιας βραδιάς, σε δωμάτια με δαχτυλίδια καπνού, καυτά φιλιά, τηλεφωνήματα σε απόγνωση, σπέρμα, μίσος, ζήλεια, τον καρπό του έρωτά σας και κάπου στο τέλος βαθειές εξομολογήσεις που θα ήθελες να της πεις και δεν το έχεις κάνει.

Η ανθολόγηση του Abel Debritto είναι άρτια αφού φροντίζει να παρουσιάσει κάθε πτυχή του Μπουκόφσκι αναφορικά με τον έρωτα. Στο “ναι” γράφει: “μια σχέση μου κρατά κατά μέσο όρο/δυόμισι χρόνια./με πολέμους/πληθωρισμό/ανεργία/αλκοολισμό/τζόγο/και τα εκφυλισμένα μου νεύρα/νομίζω πως τα πάω αρκετά καλά.” Για τον Μπουκόφσκι η αγάπη ορίζεται ως κάτι καθημερινό, κάτι που βρίσκεται δίπλα σου (“αγάπη είναι μια γριά/που τσιμπολογάει μια φέτα ψωμί”). Ο Μπουκόφκσι αυτοβιογραφείται μέσα από τα ίδια του τα ποίηματα: εφήμερες σχέσεις (“όλες οι γυναίκες/όλα τα φιλιά τους οι/διαφορετικοί τρόποι που αγαπούν και/μιλούν κι έχουν ανάγκες”), τις ιερόδουλες (“προσευχή για μια πόρνη με κακό καιρό”), τις ώρες του στη γραφομηχανή, κάνει την αυτοκριτική του ως αθεράπευτα γυναικάς (“θα/αναρωτιέσαι για/τότε που έτρεχες ανάμεσα στις γυναίκες/σαν μανιακός/σ’ανοιχτό γήπεδο/ μ’αυτή την απόλυτη/αδιαφορία για/ κιλοτάκια,πετσέτες κουζίνας,/φωτογραφίες/και τον υπόλοιπο/εξοπλισμο-/όπως/το μπέρδεμα των/ψυχών.”). Οι σχέσεις του με τις γυναίκες ιδιαίτερη και παράξενη αφού το αλκοόλ κυλούσε μέσα του σε ποσότητα. Ωστόσο μια παράξενη σχέση αγάπης διατηρήθηκε καθ’όλη τη διάρκεια της ζωής του με την κόρη του Μαρίνα. Στο “ερωτικό ποιήμα προς τη Μαρίνα” γράφει:
“το κορίτσι μου είναι 8
κι αρκετά μεγάλη για να ξέρει
το καλύτερο ή το χειρότερο ή
οτιδήποτε άλλο
έτσι χαλαρώνω γύρω της και
ακούω διάφορα συναρπαστικά πράγματα
για το σεξ
τη ζωή γενικά και τη ζωή ειδικά:
συνήθως είναι πολύ
άνετα
μόνο που εγώ έγινα πατέρας όταν οι περισσότεροι άντρες
γίνονται παππούδες”.

Μα καλά που βλέπεις την αγάπη και τον έρωτα μέσα σε τόσο αλκοόλ και παραξενιά; Αναγνώστη, Αναγνώστρια, χαλάρωσε! Όταν βάζεις τα μεθυσμένα τραγούδια του Άκη Πάνου και τα λοιπά ξαψούρηκα, δηλαδή έχεις απενοχοποιηθεί ; Ναι λοιπόν ο Μπουκόφσκι θα έβαζε το ουισκάκι ή το τσίπουρο του και θα έκανε παρέα με τον Άκη Πάνου και θα σε έκανε να θέλεις να μεθύσεις μαζί του. Να τον βρίσεις και τον αγκαλιάσεις εκεί στα καταγώγια και στους πονεμένους σου έρωτες.

Στο τέλος, ο έρωτας είναι αυτό που περιγράφει στις “εξομολογήσεις” του ο Μπουκόφσκι:

“θέλω να
ξέρει
παντως
πως όλες τις νύχτες
που κοιμήθηκα
στο πλάι της
ακόμα κι ανώφελοι
καβγάδες
ήταν ό,τι πιο
εξαίσιο

και οι δύσκολες
λέξεις
που πάντα φοβόμουν να
πω
μπορούν πια να
ειπωθούν:

σε
αγαπώ.”

Τη μετάφραση σε αυτό το γοητευτικό και παθιασμένο κόκκινο ανθολόγιο ανήκει στον χαρισματικό Γιώργο Λαμπράκο ενώ η επιμέλεια στην ποιήτρια Ευτυχία Παναγιώτου.

ΥΓ Να το αγοράσεις! Γιατί και πόνεσες και θα ξαναπονέσεις και σίγουρα στα δύσκολα ακούς Άκη Πάνου και πίνεις και λίγο παραπάνο. Εξάλλου, “αγάπη είναι όλα όσα είπαμε/πως δεν είναι”.

[Vasilis Manias · Rating 4 out of 5]

Κάθε φορά που διαβάζω το όνομά του σκέφτομαι τον Νικόλα Άσιμο. Ο κόσμος τον χαρακτήριζε πάντα με τις σκληρότερες των λέξεων. Παρίας, απόκληρος, αλήτης, ναρκομανής, περιθωριακός, μέθυσος, αναρχικός, ένας άνθρωπος έξω από τα όρια, έξω από κάθε κανόνα, αντισυμβατικός και βαθιά επαναστάτης, που καμία κοινωνία δε μπορεί ομαλά να εντάξει στο σύνολό της και άρα τον απορριπτει ολοκληρωτικά.

Μετά το θάνατό του όμως, Αυτό που έμεινε και μέν��ι στο τέλος πάντα όπως το κατακάθι του καφέ, δεν ήταν άλλο από τη γυμνή αλήθεια, που εξέθεσε του πάντες και αποκάλυψε στους αναγνώστες του, σελίδα τη σελίδα του έργου του, έναν άνθρωπο με αγάπη, με συμπόνοια, με ασύλληπτα τρυφερά αισθήματα, και φυσικά με ένα ανυπέρβλητα τεράστιο ταλέντο στον τρόπο σκέψης και εκφοράς του λόγου του.

Τσαρλς Μπουκόφσκι, το μεγαλείο της ζωής και της ανθρώπινης ύπαρξης, θα υποκλίνεται στο διηνεκές μπροστά στην σημαντικότητα της πένας σου, παντελώς ανήμπορο να κάνει αλλιώς.

[Amber · Rating 3 out of 5]

Like always when I read Bukowski; very high highs and low lows. This collecting was a bit too much of the latter for me. However, I did love a lot of poems and I love the familiar feeling I get from his writing. I don't know what it is but it soothes me somehow.

[Liam O'Leary · Rating 5 out of 5]

Is this as close as we've come to a written understanding of how men feel about having sex with women? I see no contenders.

[Bahar Hf · Rating 4 out of 5]

there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too tough for him,
I say, stay there, I’m not going
to let anybody see
you.

there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I pour whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette smoke
and the whores and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that
he’s
in there.

there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too tough for him,
I say,
stay down, do you want to mess
me up?
you want to screw up the
works?
you want to blow my book sales in
Europe?

there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too clever, I only let him out
at night sometimes
when everybody’s asleep.
I say, I know that you’re there,
so don’t be
sad.

then I put him back,
but he’s singing a little in there,
I haven’t quite let him die
and we sleep together like
that
with our
secret pact
and it’s nice enough to
make a man
weep, but I don’t
weep,
do you?

Blue Bird
Charles Bukowski

[Sahil · Rating 1 out of 5]

A Postmodernist hedonist dream.
Filled with enjambment and aposiopesis
Often mixed with sheer vulgarity masquerading as free verse.

I'd like to see change in different art forms, I'd be more than welcome to it. But this work and other works by Bukowski are pretty terrible. With minor exceptions ofcourse.

It maybe some verse. Definitely not the verse form we know as "poetry".
The post modernist twist on verse form has totally debauched poetry, made it compelling to the market, and thus making the great works rotting for academics.

Poetry doesn't really belong in the academia circles, it has to come easily like other literary works. The hedonist, drunk, sexual fantasies are easy tropes to lure people in, but it changes the dynamics of what really verse is.

[bookmarkbelles · Rating 2 out of 5]

2.5 stars

[Elise Marrah · Rating 3 out of 5]

3.5 stars - certainly vulgar!

[Iulia · Rating 5 out of 5]

"The most immense thing about beauty
is finding it gone."

Incredible read, extremely raw feelings echoing through Bukowski clear-cut lingo. He's an absolute favourite of all time of mine and this poetry collection really made me feel like he was truly honest with the message he tried to send. I got very emotional at times reading the wonderful, yet short and straight-to-the-point poems about his ex wife or his daughter.
I also enjoyed pictures and illustrations throughout the book. I seriously think this is his best poetry volume by far. It was very easy to read and go through and left me with a pleasant feeling after finishing it. Sometimes more explicit and obscene, some others incredibly hilarious, most of the time astoundingly honest: this volume gets 5 starts from me.

"so many eyes looking,
indented into a skull that will carry all those
eyes into death,
remembering."

[britt_brooke · Rating 3 out of 5]

Some poems were sweet and tender, others brash and crude. I loved the ones about his daughter and her mother the most, but my favorite over all was Pulled Down Shade which ended with these lines:

you've got to
be
the best thing that ever
happened
to
a girl
who's between
one guy
and the next
and has nothing
to do
at the moment.
this fucking
Scotch is
great.
let's play
Scrabble.

[Eve Kay · Rating 2 out of 5]

"I see where I have made plenty of poets
but not so very much
poetry"
To the whore who took my poems

Curiosity killed my continuing with Bukowski. I just wanted to see what kinds of poems from Bukowski would be chosen for a volume titled 'On love', and was disappointed.
I'm gonna need a breather to read Bukowski again.