Mockingbird Wish Me Luck

by Charles Bukowski

Mockingbird Wish Me Luck captures glimpses of Charles Bukowski's view on life through his poignant poetry: the pain, the hate, the love, and the beauty. He writes of lechery and pain while finding still being able to find its beauty.

Genres: Poetry, Fiction, American, Classics, 20th Century, United States, The United States Of America

160 pages, Paperback

First published January 1, 1972

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

[Steven Godin · Rating 4 out of 5]

You
no faces
no faces
at all
laughing at nothing-
let me tell you
I have drunk in skidrow rooms with
imbecile winos
whose cause was better
whose eyes still held some light
whose voices retained some sensibility,
and when the morning came
we were sick but not ill,
poor but not deluded,
and we stretched in our beds and rose
in the late afternoons
like millionaires.

[Nathan · Rating 5 out of 5]

To give Bukowski a "rating" seems more than a bit silly. To "review" one of his books seems even sillier. I love the guy. He is my literary pumice stone, scraping all the dead skin off my heals and endeavors. The moment I catch myself fretting over a thesaurus or a submission to some journal or prize, I grab one of his books and jab it like a needle into my vein, then wait for it to come all over me...

[robin friedman · Rating 4 out of 5]

Mockingbird

Charles Bukowski (1920 - 1994) had a gift for creating evocative titles, including the title for his 1972 collection of poetry, "Mockingbird Wish Me Luck". The title is apt. It derives from a beautiful poem, one of Bukowski's finest, "Mockingbird". I read Bukowski's poem as a parable on death and loss and cruelty. During the summer, a mockingbird has been following and taunting a cat. In response to the taunting, Bukowski writes that the cat "said something angry to the mockingbird/which I didn't understand." One day, Bukowski sees the cat walk "calmly up the driveway" with the bird alive in its mouth "no longer mocking." Bukowski writes "it was asking, it was praying/but the cat/ striding down through centuries/ would not listen." The cat crawls under a car with its prey "to bargain it to another place." And Bukowski concludes, "summer was over".

Not every poem in this volume is as effective as "Mockingbird." Bukowski was a prolific but erratic writer of short, unrhymed and unmetered poetry. Bukowski wrote in the language of common speech, punchy and colloquial. At its best, his writing has passion, rawness, a tough vulgarity, and, frequently a sardonic humor. His poetry tends to be autobiographical, but he also writes short scenes and narratives, such as "Mockingbird." In the early parts of this volume, Bukowski writes effectively of the life of the urban poor, his experiences with women, his life at the racetrack, and his thoughts on writing poetry. The themes of his poems are frequently dark, including loneliness, death, suicide, and aging. The poems in the latter part of the volume begin to take a more positive, mellower tone, as Bukowski writes of his love for his wife and for his young daughter.

Besides "Mockingbird," the poems I enjoyed in this volume include "the last days of the suicide kid", Bukowski's reflections on growing old, "My friend William", a story of a friend who seemingly had attained success in his career and in his marriage, "consummation of grief", in which Bukowski writes that "I was born to hustle roses down the avenue of the dead", the poem "he wrote in lonely blood", Bukowski's tribute to his fellow California poet Robinson Jeffers, "a sound in the brush", a story of a casualty of war, "american matador", on the theme of sex and death, and, on, one of Bukowski's preoccupations, "I saw an old-fashioned whore today".

The poems I have mentioned show the qualities of Bukowski, the toughness and grit, that will be familiar to most of his readers. I want to conclude with a poem by Bukowski that shows a part of him that may be less familiar. This poem, "marina" is written to his young daughter.

"majestic, magic
infinite
my little girl is
sun,
on the carpet-
out the door
picking a
flower, ha!

An old man,
battle-wrecked,
emerges from his
chair
and she looks at me
but only sees
love,
ha! And I become
quick with the world
and love right back
just like I was meant
to do.

Bukowski had his sentimental and tender side that he usually kept carefully hidden. This collection will appeal to lovers of the "Poet of Skid Row".

Robin Friedman

[Arturo Urista · Rating 5 out of 5]

I met Bukowski at a San Pedro book store, he signed three of his books for me. He told me that I was the only one from East L.A. that came to see him that day. I paid for Fuck Machine and I never got it. May he RIP

[Alvand · Rating 3 out of 5]

نسبت به کارهای دیگه ضعیف‌تر بود ولی خب همچنان دیوونه‌ کننده‌است

[Julie]

This book contains the famous poem "the shoelace"
. . .
it’s not the large things that
send a man to the
madhouse. death he’s ready for, or
murder, incest, robbery, fire, flood…
no, it’s the continuing series of small tragedies
that send a man to the
madhouse…
not the death of his love
but a shoelace that snaps
with no time left. . .

[Zidane Abdollahi · Rating 4 out of 5]

آتش بزرگـ

مثل کاکتوسِ توی بیابون در آتشم
در آتشم مثل کفِ دستای یه بندباز
در آتشم مثل دندون نیش عنکنوت.
درآتشم با تو و خودم.
در حال واردشدن به یه داروخونه در آتشم،
در آتشم، در آتش
دختر داروخونه‌ای، باقیمونده‌ی پولم رو میده و بهم میخنده
تنها توی تختم در آتش
با تو در آتشم.
در آتشم و کتاب میخونم
کتابهایی از تروتسکی،
هیتلر، اسکندر کبیر یا هرکس دیگه‌ای،
هر آدم زنده و مرده‌ای که یه وقتی روی این زمین زندگی میکردن.
در آتشم و به چمن‌ها نگاه میکنم
در آتشم و به پرنده‌هایی که روی سیم تلفن نشستن نگاه میکنم
در آتشم و تلفن رو جواب میدم.
وقتی که زنگ میخوره، از جا میپرم
و در آتشم.
در آتشم و به پارچه‌ی مخمل نگاه میکنم
به گربه‌ای که خوابیده نگاه میکنم و در آتشم
من یه موجود بیچاره‌ی در حال سوختنم،
بین بقیه‌ی چیزای بیچاره‌ی در حال سوختن
روی طرف چپ بدنم دراز میکشم و به سنگ قبرها نگاه میکنم
بعدش رو سمت راست دراز میکشم و بازم به سنگ قبرها نگاه میکنم.
همشون دارن میسوزن.
درحالیکه روی یه نامه تمبر میزنم در آتشم.
در آتشم درحالی‌که آشغال‌ها رو توی روزنامه می‌پیچم
با قهرمان‌ها و کوتوله‌ها و فقرا و امید در آتشم
با خشم و عشق در آتشم.
مثل یه چوب بیسبال که وارونه آویزون شده در آتشم
مثل یه پسر پادو که از پولدارا متنفره و به انعام‌هاشون پوزخند میزنه، در آتشم.
در آتشم، توی یه سوپرمارکت
درحالیکه زن‌ترین زنی که تا حالا دیدم
خم شده و سالاد سیب زمینی برمیداره
و من دیدش عیزنم.
مثل قیچی‌ای که چشم آسمون رو از حدقه میکشه بیرون، در آتشم
در آتشم، مثل صدهزار میمون که توی یه قلب میجوشن و در قرن‌ها ناامیدی
اشک میریزن.
مثل یه چاقوی تیز و تمیز توی کشوی آشپزخونه، در آتشم.
مثل یه گدا توی هند،
یه گدا توی نیویورک،
یه گدا توی لس‌آنجلس، در آتشم...
دود و شعله اوج، میگیرن
و خاکستر به جا میمونه...
در آتشم مثل سیرکی که به فنا میره
قهرمانی که روی زانوهاش وداع میکنه
همه میسوزن
به تنهایی
همه باهم
خاکستر.
مثل یه وان کثیف توی یه اتاق محزون اجاره‌ای در آتشم
مثل سوسکی که با کفشم میکشم، در آتشم.
با زنا و مردا و حیوون‌هایی در آتشم
که توی خونه‌های تاریک و دورافتاده شکنجه و اخته شدن
در آتشم با ارتش‌ها و ضدارتش‌ها
در آتشم با مردایی که در این دنیا بیشتر از هر چیزی ازشون متنفرم.
بی هیچ شانسی در آتشم.
چربی روی آتش، و برّه در حال پختن
انگار تا ابد قربانی ادامه داره
انگار عذاب تا ابد ادامه داره.
خورشید در آتش...
و افق صیقلی، سرخگون است
و گریه،
گریه،
و تو و من.
خورشید همه چیز را می‌سوزاند،
سگ‌ها را، ابرها را، بستنی‌ها را.
پایان
پایان پله‌ها
پایان اقیانوس
واپسین فریاد.
حشره در شیشه
بر شعله‌ها جاری می‌شود
و آنچه در جمجمه است
سرانجام، تسلیم می‌شود.
دود، وزیدن می‌گیرد.

[Swaye · Rating 3 out of 5]

Favourites:
3:16 and one half...
4th of july
the shoelace
marina

4th of july

it's amazing
the number of people who can't feel
pain.

put 40 in a room
squeezed against each other
hours of lethargic talk
and they don't
faint
scream
go mad or even
wince..

it appears as if they are waiting for
something that will never
arrive.

they are as comfortable as chickens or
pigs in their pens.

one might even consider it wisdom
if you can overlook the faces
and the conversation.

when the 4th is over
and they go back to their separate holes
when the sun will kiss me hello
when the sidewalks will look good again.

back in their cages
they'll dream of the next great
holiday.
probably Labor Day
smashing together on the freeways
talking together
40 in a room,
cousins, aunts, sisters, mothers, brothers, uncles,
sons, grandfathers, grandmothers, wives, husbands,
lovers, friends, all the rest,
40 in a room
talking about nothing,
talking about themselves.

[Valentina Páez · Rating 4 out of 5]

El poeta, a quien tantas veces se sorprende en la flagrancia de la paradoja, la palabra poética misma, son dispositivos por los que muestra cultura aunque quizás cada vez mas débilmente preserva la prodigalidad de lo otro irreductible como objeto de una experiencia compartida, es decir como misterio.

[Fereshteh]

MOkingbird
Wish Me Luck

[Kyriakos Sorokkou]

Η ποιητική συλλογή του Τσαρλς Μπουκόφσκι «Mockingbird: Wish Me Luck» είναι μια συλλογή από την ωμή και σκληρή ποίησή του, η οποία εξερευνά θέματα μοναξιάς, αγάπης, απελπισίας και ανθρώπινης υπόστασης με την χαρακτηριστική, ανοιχτή και αφιλτράριστη φωνή του. Τα ποιήματα του Μπουκόφσκ�� συχνά αντανακλούν τις εμπειρίες του με τις δυσκολίες της ζωής και την οπτική γωνία του ξένου, καθιστώντας αυτή τη συλλογή ένα συναρπαστικό ανάγνωσμα για όσους απολαμβάνουν το απλό στυλ.

Ο Μπουκόφσκι μιλάει με φωνή σκληρή, γυμνή, αληθινή.
Οι λέξεις του, σπασμένες, σαν τσιμεντένιοι δρόμοι,
χωρίς να ζητάει συγνώμη, χωρίς να περιμένει καμία απάντηση.
Και μέσα από την ωμότητα, αναδύεται η ομορφιά —
στην απλότητα, στη σιωπή, στην ειλικρίνεια,
μια κραυγή που ζητάει, μια προσευχή που διαπερνά,
μία ζωή που παλεύει, με κάθε ανάσα, με κάθε λέξη.


Charles Bukowski's poetry collection "Mockingbird: Wish Me Luck" is a collection of his raw and gritty poetry, exploring themes of loneliness, love, despair, and the human condition in his distinctive, open, and unfiltered voice. Bukowski's poems often reflect his experiences with life's hardships and the perspective of an outsider, making this collection a compelling read for those who enjoy a simple style.

Bukowski speaks in a voice that is hard, naked, and true.
His words, broken like concrete roads,
without apology, without expecting any answer.
And through the brutality, beauty emerges —
in simplicity, in silence, in honesty,
a cry that demands, a prayer that pierces,
a life that struggles, with every breath, with every word.


Charles Bukowskin runokokoelma "Mockingbird: Wish Me Luck" on kokoelma hänen raakaa ja rosoista runouttaan, joka käsittelee yksinäisyyden, rakkauden, epätoivon ja ihmisenä olemisen teemoja hänen omaleimaisella, avoimella ja suodattamattomalla äänellään. Bukowskin runot heijastavat usein hänen kokemuksiaan elämän vaikeuksista ja ulkopuolisen näkökulmasta, mikä tekee tästä kokoelmasta mukaansatempaavan luettavan niille, jotka nauttivat yksinkertaisesta tyylistä.

Bukowski puhuu äänellä, joka on kova, alaston ja totuudellinen.
Hänen sanansa, murtuneet kuin betonitiet,
ilman anteeksipyyntöjä, odottamatta vastausta.
Ja raakuuden läpi kauneus nousee esiin –
yksinkertaisuudessa, hiljaisuudessa, rehellisyydessä,
vaativassa huudossa, lävistävässä rukouksessa,
elämässä, joka kamppailee, jokaisella hengenvedolla, jokaisella sanalla.

[Jason · Rating 4 out of 5]

I am not a big fan of poetry and in fact this is the first book of poems I have read in quite a few years.

I really liked this book though as Bukowski's poems read like very short stories and observations.

Bukowski was a well known people watcher and there is plenty of that in this book. He has poems on things he has witnessed, anti-war poems, time in prison and moving poems about his daughter. Of course there are also poems on the many women he has loved.

My favourite poem was "the shoelace" a long list of things that will push you towards madness.

[Kiara Lynn · Rating 4 out of 5]

the mockingbird had been following the cat
all summer
mocking mocking mocking
teasing and cocksure;
the cat crawled under rockers on porches
tail flashing
and said something angry to the mockingbird
which I didn’t understand.
yesterday the cat walked calmly up the driveway
with the mockingbird alive in its mouth,
wings fanned, beautiful wings fanned and flopping,
feathers parted like a woman’s legs,
and the bird was no longer mocking,
it was asking, it was praying
but the cat
striding down through centuries
would not listen.
I saw it crawl under a yellow car
with the bird
to bargain it to another place.
summer was over.

Ist nicht so gut wie Betting On The Muse aber hat mich instant gecatched. 4/5🌟

[Michael Palkowski · Rating 4 out of 5]

"...his Malibu broads were like his poems: they never arrived"- From "The White Poets"

After reading Pulp I felt somewhat alienated and disenchanted by his particular brand of dirty realism and felt as though a sizable chunk of criticism leveled on him as being a one trick pony might have been justifiably apt. However in this collection the rawness of the poetry removes a massive amount of narrative sludge that sticks to a lot of his novels and provides the drunken maxims and portent horse racing tales into small digestible segments that really work. It's the same subject matter as nearly every other poetry collection he has done before though and so the various glimpses we are subjected to of urbanized poverty in lowlife America is glimpses we have stared at long and hard already for a long time. Part of the rawness isn't simply the content of the work but the presentation of it on the page which is really messy and punctuated poorly. It reads like a typewritten manuscript that needs various amendments to fully work as publishable content. I think this also benefits the entire project though as it feels like literary voyeurism at times and the poetic narration takes on an extra bite due to its imperfections as written form. There is also something to be said however that his glorification of the rotting underbelly of life really gets tiresome, frustrating and boring after we hear incessantly of the inherent genius of the booze hound who beats his wife. He is the anti-hero of his own writing world who always wins overcoming overwhelming odds or losing in grace and overzealous, impulsive fashion. This construction of an impoverished deity is almost cartoon like and it appeals to our immediate sensibilities as literary consumers, we like the underdog prevailing against the man.

This book also features well known and often misquoted bukowski poems such as the shoelace,
the last days of the suicide kid, style and the shower (abridged version linked). It's in these pieces and in many others that his writing exudes a mimetic quality that allows the reader to fully experience him, it never feels distant or ever obsolescent. There remains core truths about existential angst and suffering that is expressed through our really primitive addictions, stupidity and loss. All of which are expressed here in this relatively poignant and simplistic parallel universe that is now the institutionalized bukowski mythos, that is as much a piece of poetry as his actual writing was. However when his writing is 'good', it's very resonant and powerful in it's delivery, especially when he sutures many differing and often opposite understandings into singular pieces and speaks of them as though it's self evident. The gambler is revered and ritualized, the alcoholic is a martyr for life and the whore is a greek goddess.

[Rob Lloyd · Rating 4 out of 5]

After being left a bit bored of Bukowski since last reading Factotum, this has rejuvenated my enjoyment for his works. Really bizarre, hilarious, earnest and raw poems throughout.

[Corey · Rating 3 out of 5]

Oh noetry.
I don't think
I understand poetry.

[Δαμιανός Λαουνάρος · Rating 5 out of 5]

"...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."

[Mat · Rating 4 out of 5]

As with most of Bukowski's books, this is a mix of good and bad poems. There are some very good ones in this collection though.

I liked...
a day at the oak tree meet (although this is more a short story than poetry)
rain
and the moon and the stars and the world
hogs in the sky
earthquake
ha ha ha ha ha, ha ha
consummation of grief (this poem is excellent)
those sons of bitches
ww2 (this is a really nice short story about something which actually happened to Buk and how he got out of going to the war)
99 degrees
the shoelace (superb - one of Buk's best poems)
man and woman in bed at 10 p.m. (very funny!)
snake in the watermelon (weird but interesting)
style (one of his most famous poems - wish it were a little longer though)
the shower (this poem makes you a little horny)
if we take (fantastic)

The rest of the poems in this book are either average, extremely weird (found myself scratching my head thinking 'what the hell was that about?') or short and forgetful. However, overall, the above poems make this book well worth reading and as is the case with all of Buk's books, you can read them in an afternoon.

Buk's bravado and brashness always make me feel better after a long day at work, after too much bullshit, that we have to put up with....every...damn...day. Thank you Buk. Your poems bounce right off the street and give succour to the dispossessed, the sad, the lonely, the losers and everyone else struggling to make sense of this world....

[Elh R' · Rating 4 out of 5]

It's funny. I mean, I'm a Bukowski fan, but I rate all his books at 4 stars, even when he is my favorite writer.

So, this book is about Bukowski, his poetry, his life, his girls, his drunkness. I don't consider this book as an essential reader, but, if you are into the old Buk, pic it up, it will not disappoint you.

The thing with Buk, is that his books seem incomplete, have a rotten smell of imperfection and low life. And that's the main reason he is my favorite writer. He doesn't try to be perfect, he doesn't try to be Neruda, or Lorca, or Borges, or Whitman, he is simply Bukowski.
I read a lot of books, sci-fi, realism, non-fiction,and most of them are good stories. But, when I read Buk, he doesn't write just a good story, he writes my story. I feel really close to him in some many ways, while in others I feel so distant, but, the kind of intimacy that I get when I read him, I didn't found it with another writer.

Bukowski is not for the clean asses rich boys of mom and daddy. He is dirty, he is nasty, and he just masturbate over society.

[Dane Cobain · Rating 4 out of 5]

This isn’t Charles Bukowski’s strongest book, but it’s still a cracking collection of his poetry, and he does his usual inimitable job of using simple language to evoke complex feelings within the reader.

Usually when I read Bukowski, I’m left with a half-dozen poems which stood out above all of the others; this time, there’s just the one poem, a World War II epic which almost verges on prose. And what’s interesting about it is that it’s set wholly in America, and focuses more on the draft than on the war itself.

Overall, if you’re new to Bukowski then I wouldn’t suggest starting with this one, because it isn’t his best. Just work your way through to it if you’re devouring his entire bibliography, like I’m trying to do. After all, it’s still a pretty good book!

[Noha · Rating 3 out of 5]

3.5

his collection of poems is as usual a mix of weird ones that make you go “the hell was that about?”, some which are short and forgetful, then, there are the other ones that are absolutely good and tell a valuable story which makes his books worth reading.

I’m admitting it, knowing his background story and learning a lot about him through his poems, he’s one of my favorite authors.


“through love spilled
behind a broken shade on an October day;
through forms and windows and lines,
through a book by Kafka stained with wine,
through wives and friends and jails,
standing young once
hearing Beethoven or Bruckner,
or even riding a bicycle,
young as that,
impossible”

[Scott Holstad · Rating 5 out of 5]

This is one of my favorite book of poems by Bukowski. Some people don't like it because they view him as a misogynist, but he can be seen that way in virtually every book, so I don't know why people would pick on this book. This has some special poems, one of which -- "Bluebird" -- is a personal favorite. These poems bridge the gap, for me, between his earlier far out stuff and his later self absorbed stuff. There's a nice mixture here and I think the book reads well.

[Bud Smith · Rating 5 out of 5]

Have read a bunch of Bukowski's short stories and novels (90% of them prob.) and while I do enjoy his prose, I'm really into his poetry. This is my the collection of his I've checked out. Solid stuff. There's plenty of wonder and elevation here beside the usual negativity, horse track excursions, whores and drinking. A great collection of poetry published around the time Post Office dropped. My favorite poems off the top of my head were "the smoking car" and "power failure"

[João Moura · Rating 3 out of 5]

Mockingbird wish us all luck...we...the lost souls...

A poesia desvairada habitual de Buko, sobre o quotidiano e mais alguma coisa. Matar uma mosca na parede equivale a tropas americanas a invadir o Vietname. Uma prostituta é uma santa salvadora do das dores do Homem. O calor de California é o inferno na Terra. O esquema das apostas de cavalos é uma forma de vida. Viver é um manifesto...Vivamos o momento tal como ele é...Não pensemos muitos...Desfrutemos...

[Melusina · Rating 4 out of 5]

I'd prefer to give 3 2/3 stars. This collection is the weakest of Bukowski's that I have read so far, yet it contains some truly special lines. Hence the 4 stars, instead of the 3. It is true that his alcoholic misogynistic self makes more than the occasional visit, but this is what you're in for when you read Mr. B. To expect anything less would be practically an insult to his legacy.

[natalie · Rating 4 out of 5]

déšť

symfonický orchestr,
je bouřka,
hraje se předehra od Wagnera,
a lidé opouštějí sedadla pod stromy
a utíkají pod plátěnou střechu
ženy se chichotají, muži předstírají klid,
odhazují mokré cigarety,
Wagner hraje dál, a pak jsou všichni pod
střechou. dokonce ptáci slétají ze stromů
rapsodie č. 2 od Liszta, a pořád prší, ale podívejte,
v dešti sedí osamocený muž
poslouchá. obecenstvo si ho všímá. otáčí se
a dívá se. orchestr si hledí
svého. muž sedí v noci v dešti,
poslouchá. něco s ním není v pořádku,
nezdá se vám?
přišel si poslechnout
hudbu.

str. 33
---

inkvizitor

ve vaně si znova čtu Célinovu
Cestu do hlubin noci
zvoní telefon
vylézám
beru si ručník.
nějaký chlapík ze společenského časopisu,
chce vědět, co mám ve schránce
jak se mi daří
v životě.
říkám mu, že ve schránce
ani v životě nic
nemám.
myslí si, že něco
tajím. doufám
že ano.

str.74

---

rádio

divné oči v mojí hlavě
jsem zbabělec a blázen a šašek
a poslouchám muže, který mi říká, že můžu dostat
průvodce restauracemi a rozrůstající se kalendář
kulturních akcí

dneska jsem někde mimo
nechci restaurace ani rozšiřující se kulturní akce
chci starou boudu v horách
bez nutnosti platit nájem
s dostatkem jídla a pití až do mojí smrti

divné oči v mojí hlavě
divné způsoby

žádná naděje

str. 104

[Елина Генова · Rating 5 out of 5]

тези кучи синове


мъртвите дотичват странишком
стискайки реклами на пасти за зъби,
мъртвите са пияни на Нова година
доволни на Коледа
благодарни в Деня на Благодарността
отегчени на 4-ти Юли
бездейни в Деня на Труда
смутени на Великден
мрачни на погребения
шутове в болниците
нервни при раждане;
мъртвите купуват бельо и чорапи
колани и килими и вази и
маси за кафе,
мъртвите танцуват с мъртвите
мъртвите ядат с мъртвите.

мъртвите огладняват гледайки свински глави.

мъртвите забогатяват
мъртвите стават още по-мъртви

тези кучи синове

това гробище над земята

един надгробен камък за мръсотията,
аз казвам:
човечество, ти никога не си
живяло.

[Áďa · Rating 4 out of 5]

Mám ráda autory, co se nebojí psát a umí to podat tou nejlepší formou - Bukowski je umělec, který ví, jak vás má zaujmout - zvrhlostí a také upřímností jeho slov. Básně jsou také reálné a hlavně pravdivé, místy i vtipné a dráždivé. Styl psaní pana Bukowskiho vás nutí číst a číst a přemýšlet o tom, co píše. Jaká je vlastně lidská mysl, co nás přitahuje a kým jsme... Dokonce se nebojí zajít do extrémů a to nejen popisných, ale také podrobných. Bylo to krásné čtení.

[readingwsophie · Rating 3 out of 5]

Esta colección tiene poemas muy buenos y muy malos. Me cuesta decir si me gustó o no. Lo que me pasa con Bukowski es que, cuando me gusta uno de sus poemas, compensa por el resto aunque sean malos.

“I have this tomb within myself that says, ah, let the others do it, let them win, let me sleep, wisdom is in the dark sweeping through the dark like brooms, im going where the summer flies have gone, try to catch me.”

[Niriel08 · Rating 4 out of 5]

En realidad es un 4.5 me gustó mucho, la poesía de Bukowski siempre será de mi favorita.