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The Roominghouse Madrigals: Early Selected Poems, 1946-1966
The Roominghouse Madrigals is a selection of poetry from Charles Bukowski's early work. It shows a slightly softer side to the beloved barfly.
Charles Bukowski is one of America's best-known contemporary writers of poetry and prose, and, many would claim, its most influential and imitated poet. He was born in Andernach, Germany, and raised in Los Angeles, where he lived for fifty years. He published his first story in 1944, when he was twenty-four, and began writing poetry at the age of thirty-five. He died in San Pedro, California, on March 9, 1994, at the age of seventy-three, shortly after completing his last novel, Pulp (1994).
Charles Bukowski is one of America's best-known contemporary writers of poetry and prose, and, many would claim, its most influential and imitated poet. He was born in Andernach, Germany, and raised in Los Angeles, where he lived for fifty years. He published his first story in 1944, when he was twenty-four, and began writing poetry at the age of thirty-five. He died in San Pedro, California, on March 9, 1994, at the age of seventy-three, shortly after completing his last novel, Pulp (1994).
256 pages, Hardcover
First published January 1, 1988
64 people are currently reading
1272 people want to read
About the author
Charles Bukowski
854 books29.9k followersHenry Charles Bukowski (born as Heinrich Karl Bukowski) was a German-born American poet, novelist and short story writer. His writing was influenced by the social, cultural and economic ambience of his home city of Los Angeles.It is marked by an emphasis on the ordinary lives of poor Americans, the act of writing, alcohol, relationships with women and the drudgery of work. Bukowski wrote thousands of poems, hundreds of short stories and six novels, eventually publishing over sixty books
Charles Bukowski was the only child of an American soldier and a German mother. At the age of three, he came with his family to the United States and grew up in Los Angeles. He attended Los Angeles City College from 1939 to 1941, then left school and moved to New York City to become a writer. His lack of publishing success at this time caused him to give up writing in 1946 and spurred a ten-year stint of heavy drinking. After he developed a bleeding ulcer, he decided to take up writing again. He worked a wide range of jobs to support his writing, including dishwasher, truck driver and loader, mail carrier, guard, gas station attendant, stock boy, warehouse worker, shipping clerk, post office clerk, parking lot attendant, Red Cross orderly, and elevator operator. He also worked in a dog biscuit factory, a slaughterhouse, a cake and cookie factory, and he hung posters in New York City subways.
Bukowski published his first story when he was twenty-four and began writing poetry at the age of thirty-five. His first book of poetry was published in 1959; he went on to publish more than forty-five books of poetry and prose, including Pulp (1994), Screams from the Balcony (1993), and The Last Night of the Earth Poems (1992).
He died of leukemia in San Pedro on March 9, 1994.
Charles Bukowski was the only child of an American soldier and a German mother. At the age of three, he came with his family to the United States and grew up in Los Angeles. He attended Los Angeles City College from 1939 to 1941, then left school and moved to New York City to become a writer. His lack of publishing success at this time caused him to give up writing in 1946 and spurred a ten-year stint of heavy drinking. After he developed a bleeding ulcer, he decided to take up writing again. He worked a wide range of jobs to support his writing, including dishwasher, truck driver and loader, mail carrier, guard, gas station attendant, stock boy, warehouse worker, shipping clerk, post office clerk, parking lot attendant, Red Cross orderly, and elevator operator. He also worked in a dog biscuit factory, a slaughterhouse, a cake and cookie factory, and he hung posters in New York City subways.
Bukowski published his first story when he was twenty-four and began writing poetry at the age of thirty-five. His first book of poetry was published in 1959; he went on to publish more than forty-five books of poetry and prose, including Pulp (1994), Screams from the Balcony (1993), and The Last Night of the Earth Poems (1992).
He died of leukemia in San Pedro on March 9, 1994.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 104 reviews
April 26, 2020
To end up alone
in a tomb of a room
without cigarettes
or wine—
just a lightbulb
and a potbelly,
grayhaired,
and glad to have
the room.
. . . in the morning
they're out there
making money:
judges, carpenters,
plumbers, doctors,
newsboys, policemen,
barbers, carwashers,
dentists, florists,
waitresses, cooks,
cabdrivers . . .
and you turn over
to your left side
to get the sun
on your back
and out
of your eyes.
— — —
I once bought a toy rabbit
at a department store
and now he sits and ponders
me with pink sheer eyes:
He wants golfballs and glass
walls.
I want quiet thunder.
Our disappointment sits between us.
— — —
there is nothing subtle about dying or
dumping garbage, or the spider
and this fist full of nickels and
the barking dogs tonight
when the beast puffs on beer
and moonlight,
and asks my name
and I hold to the wall
not man enough to cry
as the city dumps its sorrow
in wine bottles and stale kisses,
and the handcuffs and crutches and slabs
fornicate like mad.
January 15, 2013
This book meant a lot to me, so I thought I would go back through it and read the random love notes I wrote to Bukowski and the lines I underlined. I know this review won't be noteworthy in any sense, but it is nice to go back through a book you love and remember why you decided to love it the first time you read it.
I am not one for re-reading; I am the worst culprit. I do underline for the sake of reading my favorite parts over and over again, but I typically do not re-read an entire book.
Bukowski has been more to me than just a writer I admire and aspire to be. He got me through my senior year of high school up until this point, where I find myself an army wife who teaches grammar at a community college.
Bukowski makes me want to dream bigger for myself, no matter where I am at in my life.
What I love about this book, in particular, is the way his writing WAS his life during this time. In a lot of his later works, he uses writing the way he used gambling or fucking or unemployment; they were factors in his life. What is special in this book is the fact that writing isn't a factor. He IS a writer, and the typewriter was almost another limb on his body. He HAD to write. It wasn't second nature; it was essential.
Because of his necessity, it makes the way he loves, the way he regrets, and the way he rejects so much more meaningful. I know I am only 23, but I remember when writing was as necessary as breathing, and I can't remember a better time in my life for experiencing the things around me. I hope it isn't just a phase in my life because I appreciate how much this necessity affected Bukowski's work.
I prefer his poetry to his novels and short stories, but I have always loved Bukowski's honesty in his writing above all, and I think he really gets to this honesty in his early works simply because he was not self-aware of his writing yet. It wasn't just a way to pay the bills; it was a way to live, and it is especially prevalent in this book.
I am not one for re-reading; I am the worst culprit. I do underline for the sake of reading my favorite parts over and over again, but I typically do not re-read an entire book.
Bukowski has been more to me than just a writer I admire and aspire to be. He got me through my senior year of high school up until this point, where I find myself an army wife who teaches grammar at a community college.
Bukowski makes me want to dream bigger for myself, no matter where I am at in my life.
What I love about this book, in particular, is the way his writing WAS his life during this time. In a lot of his later works, he uses writing the way he used gambling or fucking or unemployment; they were factors in his life. What is special in this book is the fact that writing isn't a factor. He IS a writer, and the typewriter was almost another limb on his body. He HAD to write. It wasn't second nature; it was essential.
Because of his necessity, it makes the way he loves, the way he regrets, and the way he rejects so much more meaningful. I know I am only 23, but I remember when writing was as necessary as breathing, and I can't remember a better time in my life for experiencing the things around me. I hope it isn't just a phase in my life because I appreciate how much this necessity affected Bukowski's work.
I prefer his poetry to his novels and short stories, but I have always loved Bukowski's honesty in his writing above all, and I think he really gets to this honesty in his early works simply because he was not self-aware of his writing yet. It wasn't just a way to pay the bills; it was a way to live, and it is especially prevalent in this book.
February 12, 2017
A blazing brilliant bonfire of wondrous poetry.
Where do I begin?
This is quite simply and in all honesty, Bukowski's best book of poetry, hands down. Some have called it 'lyrical', and indeed there are some poems in here which are lyrical, romantic, sweet and droll. As one proceeds through the book, the harder, grittier poems increase and this is the style which Bukowski tended to develop more and more throughout his career and one in which he feels most comfortable. The greatest thing about these poems is that you can feel the desperation, you can almost feel the torpor of his mind as he awakes to deal with another hangover or another lost job opportunity and you can feel his cynicism above all about how everyone can just accept the ugly reality he sees all around him. He is somehow able to magically distill all of these atmospheres and feelings into words and although he is impossibly cynical and a dye-in-the-wool nihilist (no wonder he loved Celine. wonder what he thought of Nietzche?) he nevertheless is, and funnily enough, a dye-in-the-woll nihilist you can't help adore. The most loveable rogue in literature.
Sure there are a few poems in here which are weak but I found myself underlining certain phrases or lines on almost any given page of this book. It's so good and in fact completely changed my opinion of Bukowski as a poet. Up until now, I had always thought of Bukowski as a great novelist, a sometimes great short-story teller but overall, a fairly average (but relatively singular) poet. THIS BOOK demonstrates just how much talent Bukowski had for poetry too. So what happened to the quality of Bukowski's poetry after this? Well, he was definitely hot and cold. Micheline thinks it was the fame trap that just made him become lazy and lose his edge. I personally think he had a big enough ego to not throw away the 'crap' when he should have. Instead, he ended up submitting just about anything he wrote and some of the poems (not in this book but elsewhere) sound like sketches, and the beginning of an idea, but nowhere near there yet.
I am so glad I read this book. A lot of people have written off Bukowski's poetry or over-praised it. Finally we have a book which allows us to do neither - it shows us that when he was inspired or his muse was around to bet on, then he could pull out all the stops and serve us the real deal. I won't over-praise this book but it's damned good. Damned good. And here I was ready to write another average review of yet another average Bukowski book. I was wrong. And glad I was wrong.
Do yourself a favour and read this. You won't like all of the poems but I will guarantee you that some of it will bring a smile to your face. Highly, highly recommended for modern poetry lovers.
Where do I begin?
This is quite simply and in all honesty, Bukowski's best book of poetry, hands down. Some have called it 'lyrical', and indeed there are some poems in here which are lyrical, romantic, sweet and droll. As one proceeds through the book, the harder, grittier poems increase and this is the style which Bukowski tended to develop more and more throughout his career and one in which he feels most comfortable. The greatest thing about these poems is that you can feel the desperation, you can almost feel the torpor of his mind as he awakes to deal with another hangover or another lost job opportunity and you can feel his cynicism above all about how everyone can just accept the ugly reality he sees all around him. He is somehow able to magically distill all of these atmospheres and feelings into words and although he is impossibly cynical and a dye-in-the-wool nihilist (no wonder he loved Celine. wonder what he thought of Nietzche?) he nevertheless is, and funnily enough, a dye-in-the-woll nihilist you can't help adore. The most loveable rogue in literature.
Sure there are a few poems in here which are weak but I found myself underlining certain phrases or lines on almost any given page of this book. It's so good and in fact completely changed my opinion of Bukowski as a poet. Up until now, I had always thought of Bukowski as a great novelist, a sometimes great short-story teller but overall, a fairly average (but relatively singular) poet. THIS BOOK demonstrates just how much talent Bukowski had for poetry too. So what happened to the quality of Bukowski's poetry after this? Well, he was definitely hot and cold. Micheline thinks it was the fame trap that just made him become lazy and lose his edge. I personally think he had a big enough ego to not throw away the 'crap' when he should have. Instead, he ended up submitting just about anything he wrote and some of the poems (not in this book but elsewhere) sound like sketches, and the beginning of an idea, but nowhere near there yet.
I am so glad I read this book. A lot of people have written off Bukowski's poetry or over-praised it. Finally we have a book which allows us to do neither - it shows us that when he was inspired or his muse was around to bet on, then he could pull out all the stops and serve us the real deal. I won't over-praise this book but it's damned good. Damned good. And here I was ready to write another average review of yet another average Bukowski book. I was wrong. And glad I was wrong.
Do yourself a favour and read this. You won't like all of the poems but I will guarantee you that some of it will bring a smile to your face. Highly, highly recommended for modern poetry lovers.
February 28, 2008
One of the better Buk collections because there's lots of prose about poetry writing, which is cool, not much horse racing and banging chippies for a change. There are some really sweet lines flying around in this tome, too.
Poem titles:
Death Wants More Death
The Swans Walk My Brain, In April It Rains
Thank God For Alleys
The Best Way To Get Famous Is To Run Away
Actually, the old stew-bum dishes out tons of fatherly writerly advice. I took notes because he's almost never wrong!
Poem titles:
Death Wants More Death
The Swans Walk My Brain, In April It Rains
Thank God For Alleys
The Best Way To Get Famous Is To Run Away
Actually, the old stew-bum dishes out tons of fatherly writerly advice. I took notes because he's almost never wrong!
September 23, 2014
a great disappointment.
there are some great parts that I marked and quoted everywhere, but I can't help feeling offended by the constant degradation of women in Bukowski's poems.
I don't understand how he was called the most influential writer of contemporary poetry.. or maybe I just don't understand poetry.. either way, I hope if he did influence young poets that at least they don't imitate his hatred and bitterness.
but aren't all poets bitter?
there are some great parts that I marked and quoted everywhere, but I can't help feeling offended by the constant degradation of women in Bukowski's poems.
I don't understand how he was called the most influential writer of contemporary poetry.. or maybe I just don't understand poetry.. either way, I hope if he did influence young poets that at least they don't imitate his hatred and bitterness.
but aren't all poets bitter?
February 16, 2019
Just because The Genius of the Crowd is in this collection, it gets five stars.
Not Wanting Solitude
Not Understanding Solitude
They Will Attempt To Destroy
Anything
That Differs
From Their Own
Not Wanting Solitude
Not Understanding Solitude
They Will Attempt To Destroy
Anything
That Differs
From Their Own
May 23, 2020
Bukowski's Early Poems
Charles Bukowski (1920 -- 1994) is best known as the writer of novels such as "Ham On Rye" and "Women", which are based upon the author's life and feature a character named Henry Chinaski, and for movies such as "Barfly" and "Factotum" based upon Bukowski's novels and stories. But Bukowski saw himself primarily as a poet. He wrote prolifically for years, publishing frequently in journals and little magazines. His extensive writing belies, somewhat, Bukowski's public image. It shows a person interested in considerably more that alcohol, horseracing, and sex. Bukowski devoted a great deal of time and energy to becoming a writer.
The collection "Roominghouse Madrigals" was published by Black Sparrow Press in 1988, following the success of the movie "Barfly." Black Sparrow had already published several collections of Bukowski's poetry, but "Roominghous Madrigals" is a collection of earlier material, writen between 1946 and 1966. In fact, the collection dates overwhelmingly from the latter ten years, as Bukowski virtually had stopped writing during the mid 1940s to mid 1950s. In the forward to the collection, Bukowski writes that he and some editorial assistants attempted to gather together some of the poems from Bukowski's earliest efforts for publication in the book. He describes the poems as "more lyrical" than his subsequent efforts and that he retains a "certain fondness" for them because of the life of cheap roominghouses, menial jobs, lack of money, and effort at writing that they recalled to him.
As with much of Bukowski's poetry, the poems of "Roominghouse Madrigals" are short, broken-lined, unrhymed and unmetered. They generally speak directly to the author's immediate experiences. Whitman is a source for Bukowski's poetry (Emily Dickinson may be as well, given the personal character of the poems) as is the 20th Century poet Robinson Jeffers. The book is long for a collection of poetry (256 pages) and the poems are put together without apparent sequence and with no attempt to correlate the poem with the year in which it was writtin or to its initial publication, if any.
I found "Roominghouse Madrigals" a mixed collection with some poems working, others not. The book is dark and pessimistic, as a whole, with many poems exploring themes of death and suicide, violence and hard living, loneliness, and a broad sense of alienation. The book differs from some of Bukowski's later work in its use of elaborate metaphor, which is frequently highly striking, vivid, and surrealistic. In addition, this collection frequently explores themes at a more abstract level than does most of Bukowski's later poetry. As with most of Bukowski's work, there is a sense of redemption in this book, as the poet tries to create a meaningful life in the crassness or his surroundings through the practice of capturing his experiences in art.
Some of the poems in the collection that I found effective include "It's not who Lived Here", "Poem for my 43d Birthday", "The Japanese Wife", "The Loser", "All I know", "Old Man Dead in a Room", "Counsel", "Goldfish", "Sad-Eyed Mules of Men" "The Gypsies near Del Mar", and "Rose, Rose". Here is the poem "Rose, Rose":
"rose, rose
bark for me
all these centuries in the sun
you have heard men sing
to break like the stems that held you
you have sat in the hair of young girls
like roses themselves, feeling like roses,
and you know, you know what happened
I gave roses to a lady once and she put them
on her dresser and hugged them and smelled them
and now the lady is gone and the roses are gone
but the dresser is there, I see the dresser
and on the boulevards I see you again
alive again! yes!
and, I am still
alive.
rose, rose,
bark for me.
walking last night
feeling my flesh fat about my girth
old dreams faint as fireflies
I came upon a flower
and like a giant god gone mad
yanked off its head
and then put the petals in my pocket
feeling and tearing
soft insides, ha so! -
like defiling a virgin.
she hugged you, she loved you
and she died, and
in my room, hand out of pocket,
the first night's drink, and
along the edge of the glass,
the same same scarlet
virgin and thorn, my hand
my hand my hand; bark, rose
teeth of centuries blooming
in the sun, vast god damned
god pulling these poems out
of my head"
Overall, this collection of early, scattered works does not represent the best of Bukowski's poetry.
Readers might want to check the pagination carefully before purchasing "The Roominghouse Madrigals." In my copy, pages 133 -- 164 were included twice while pages 165--196 were missing.
Robin Friedman
Charles Bukowski (1920 -- 1994) is best known as the writer of novels such as "Ham On Rye" and "Women", which are based upon the author's life and feature a character named Henry Chinaski, and for movies such as "Barfly" and "Factotum" based upon Bukowski's novels and stories. But Bukowski saw himself primarily as a poet. He wrote prolifically for years, publishing frequently in journals and little magazines. His extensive writing belies, somewhat, Bukowski's public image. It shows a person interested in considerably more that alcohol, horseracing, and sex. Bukowski devoted a great deal of time and energy to becoming a writer.
The collection "Roominghouse Madrigals" was published by Black Sparrow Press in 1988, following the success of the movie "Barfly." Black Sparrow had already published several collections of Bukowski's poetry, but "Roominghous Madrigals" is a collection of earlier material, writen between 1946 and 1966. In fact, the collection dates overwhelmingly from the latter ten years, as Bukowski virtually had stopped writing during the mid 1940s to mid 1950s. In the forward to the collection, Bukowski writes that he and some editorial assistants attempted to gather together some of the poems from Bukowski's earliest efforts for publication in the book. He describes the poems as "more lyrical" than his subsequent efforts and that he retains a "certain fondness" for them because of the life of cheap roominghouses, menial jobs, lack of money, and effort at writing that they recalled to him.
As with much of Bukowski's poetry, the poems of "Roominghouse Madrigals" are short, broken-lined, unrhymed and unmetered. They generally speak directly to the author's immediate experiences. Whitman is a source for Bukowski's poetry (Emily Dickinson may be as well, given the personal character of the poems) as is the 20th Century poet Robinson Jeffers. The book is long for a collection of poetry (256 pages) and the poems are put together without apparent sequence and with no attempt to correlate the poem with the year in which it was writtin or to its initial publication, if any.
I found "Roominghouse Madrigals" a mixed collection with some poems working, others not. The book is dark and pessimistic, as a whole, with many poems exploring themes of death and suicide, violence and hard living, loneliness, and a broad sense of alienation. The book differs from some of Bukowski's later work in its use of elaborate metaphor, which is frequently highly striking, vivid, and surrealistic. In addition, this collection frequently explores themes at a more abstract level than does most of Bukowski's later poetry. As with most of Bukowski's work, there is a sense of redemption in this book, as the poet tries to create a meaningful life in the crassness or his surroundings through the practice of capturing his experiences in art.
Some of the poems in the collection that I found effective include "It's not who Lived Here", "Poem for my 43d Birthday", "The Japanese Wife", "The Loser", "All I know", "Old Man Dead in a Room", "Counsel", "Goldfish", "Sad-Eyed Mules of Men" "The Gypsies near Del Mar", and "Rose, Rose". Here is the poem "Rose, Rose":
"rose, rose
bark for me
all these centuries in the sun
you have heard men sing
to break like the stems that held you
you have sat in the hair of young girls
like roses themselves, feeling like roses,
and you know, you know what happened
I gave roses to a lady once and she put them
on her dresser and hugged them and smelled them
and now the lady is gone and the roses are gone
but the dresser is there, I see the dresser
and on the boulevards I see you again
alive again! yes!
and, I am still
alive.
rose, rose,
bark for me.
walking last night
feeling my flesh fat about my girth
old dreams faint as fireflies
I came upon a flower
and like a giant god gone mad
yanked off its head
and then put the petals in my pocket
feeling and tearing
soft insides, ha so! -
like defiling a virgin.
she hugged you, she loved you
and she died, and
in my room, hand out of pocket,
the first night's drink, and
along the edge of the glass,
the same same scarlet
virgin and thorn, my hand
my hand my hand; bark, rose
teeth of centuries blooming
in the sun, vast god damned
god pulling these poems out
of my head"
Overall, this collection of early, scattered works does not represent the best of Bukowski's poetry.
Readers might want to check the pagination carefully before purchasing "The Roominghouse Madrigals." In my copy, pages 133 -- 164 were included twice while pages 165--196 were missing.
Robin Friedman
March 12, 2018
This collection brings together Bukowski’s earliest selected poems from 1946–1966, which is interesting in itself because according to his author bio, he didn’t even start writing poetry until 1955. You can tell that they’re his early poems, too. He’s still finding his voice as a writer, and it’s his voice which made his work so distinct. Because of that, while this is a reasonable enough collection of poetry, it’s nowhere near Bukowski’s best. I don’t think I’d recommend it unless you’re already familiar with his later work and you want to see how it all started out.
Don’t get me wrong, there are certainly some standout poems here that really stuck in my mind, and I had no problem finding enough that I enjoy to fill a YouTube video. But while you could feel that Bukowski was in there somewhere, you could also feel that he was trying to distill other people’s influences into what he was writing instead of going balls-to-the-wall and writing from his heart, instead of his head.
On the plus side, you do get plenty of his usual topics (women, races, alcohol), and you get to see them through a younger set of eyes. It’s interesting to see that he was just as obsessed with death in his younger years as he was when he reached his seventies, and that gives me some hope for myself. So I’m glad that I read this, I just wouldn’t recommend it to a newbie.
Don’t get me wrong, there are certainly some standout poems here that really stuck in my mind, and I had no problem finding enough that I enjoy to fill a YouTube video. But while you could feel that Bukowski was in there somewhere, you could also feel that he was trying to distill other people’s influences into what he was writing instead of going balls-to-the-wall and writing from his heart, instead of his head.
On the plus side, you do get plenty of his usual topics (women, races, alcohol), and you get to see them through a younger set of eyes. It’s interesting to see that he was just as obsessed with death in his younger years as he was when he reached his seventies, and that gives me some hope for myself. So I’m glad that I read this, I just wouldn’t recommend it to a newbie.
February 17, 2011
My introduction to Bukowski was in the form of his later poetry, which is, naturally, quite unlike his earlier stuff. His influences are more obvious (not at all in a bad way) in this collection, and his poetry is much more structured than what I've come to expect from Buk. But it has all the hallmarks of what I love about literature's favorite dirty old man, which is all I ever need to be happy.
Though I find it curious that his younger poems seem to betray an obsession with death and his own mortality more than any of his older writings I've encountered. And I wish he hadn't written about spiders in such unflinching detail. I hate spiders almost as much as I love Bukowski.
Though I find it curious that his younger poems seem to betray an obsession with death and his own mortality more than any of his older writings I've encountered. And I wish he hadn't written about spiders in such unflinching detail. I hate spiders almost as much as I love Bukowski.
October 12, 2015
This is one of my first forays into poetry and it was a pretty interesting one at that. Bukowski's writings are just so raw and visceral. I felt at times that some themes were reused over and over again in this large compilation. But the directness of the writing (and unusual style too in my opinion) never made this a dull read.
June 23, 2014
Bukowski's finest era of poetry.
Read
January 28, 2024Kind of yuck
September 13, 2023
I'm not sure exactly what to say about this book.
Bukowski is one of those writers people either love or hate, very little in between and people are very unlikely to change their minds on him once they've decided one way or another.
So i will come right out and say that i love Bukowski, i won't even pretend to be impartial for this review.
This collection gathers together some of his early poems, it's worth noting that he didn't change that much over the years, his style remained much the same and his subject matter remained the bars, whores, drunks and bums of his native LA. If none of those things interest you don't bother reading Bukowski, simple as that.
To me Bukowski is great because he captured the struggle to remain human in an inhuman system, the fight to keep your soul in a soul-crushing society. Again, if that interests you then you might dig Bukowski, if not, don't bother.
Bukowski is one of those writers people either love or hate, very little in between and people are very unlikely to change their minds on him once they've decided one way or another.
So i will come right out and say that i love Bukowski, i won't even pretend to be impartial for this review.
This collection gathers together some of his early poems, it's worth noting that he didn't change that much over the years, his style remained much the same and his subject matter remained the bars, whores, drunks and bums of his native LA. If none of those things interest you don't bother reading Bukowski, simple as that.
To me Bukowski is great because he captured the struggle to remain human in an inhuman system, the fight to keep your soul in a soul-crushing society. Again, if that interests you then you might dig Bukowski, if not, don't bother.
November 21, 2015
I keep coming back to this author (about 2/3 through his body of work), a most conflicted man, typing poems alone in obscure tenement houses in a Californian post-war wasteland. His writing has little pretension, or expectation, just pure desire poured out on the page. And the man has real talent, perhaps exceptional, and he must have known that, or he would found some other outlet. It certainly wasn’t a living, in its time or even much later in life when he became better known. This collection is typical of the early years (before and after his hiatus), and what I loved about it is that the author’s personality comes through: If you want to know what it is like to walk in another’s shoes, here’s your chance. Of course the shoes are horribly beaten, the feet staggering from drink or lack of hope, all holding up a person violently angry at his lot, frustrated by women and man alike, and deeply resentful of his creators. Bukowski was one step from the gutter at this stage of life, sometimes in it, yet somehow managed to convert reams of paper into stacks of beautiful poetry with his old manual typewriter, probably the only vein of life in most of the dilapidated apartment complexes he frequented in the 1940s California. He was one of a kind, and can’t help but feel I really know him. Though my station in life couldn’t be more different, like Buk I find my fellow man and the world he’s created often appalling. Also like him, we find beauty and tenderness and can’t help but hold out quiet, cautious hope for a better world and love for each other. I’ll be quite now and let him speak:
(p. 45) “the legs are gone and the hopes – the lava of outpouring and I haven’t shaved in sixteen days but the mailman still makes his rounds and water still comes out of the faucet and I have a photo of myself with glazed and milky eyes full of simple music in golden trunks and 12 oz. gloves when I made the semi-finals only to be taken out by a German brute who should have been locked in a cage for the insane and allowed to drink blood. Now I am insane and stare at the wallpaper as one would stare at a Cezanne or an early Picasso (he has lost it), and I sent out the girls for beer, the old girls who barely bother to…”
(p. 52) “I want so much that is not here and do not know where to go”
(p. 107) “4:18 a.m., symphony #2, the gas is on but the masses still sleep except the bastard downstairs who always has the light on all night, he yawns all night and sleeps all day, he’s either a madman or a poet; and has an ugly wife, neither of them work and we pass each other on the steps (the wife and I) when we go down to dup our bottles, and I look at his name on the mailbox: Fleg. God. No wonder. A fleg never sleeps. Some kind of fish-thing waiting for a twist in the sky.”
(p. 135) “her skin is white and sagging, she has on a purple understlip. This is what causes wars, great paintings, suicides, harps, geognosy and hermits.”
(p. 139) “it is fairly dismal to know that millions of people are worried about the hydrogen bomb yet they are already dead. Yet they keep trying to make women, money, sense. And finally the Great Bartender will lean forward, white and pure and strong and mystic, to tell you that you’ve had enough just when you feel like you’re getting started”
(p. 177) “so being a poltroon, I have read the classics, I have argued in the marketplace, I have been drunk with the immortals: I have listened to these children cry that language is too huge a bone for all of us: even the finer wits have dulled their massive teeth. Let me be fuddled in the glade, numb with the growth of fancy; let me find me and dogs, and children, let me find towers and lattice sawing in the sun, and a God of Life instead of Death.”
(p. 182) “I go inside to wife and hound, both fat and soft as peaches under the sun. I shave by cndlefat and lightning. I shave by their holy silence, in a shattered mirror.”
(p. 228) “…here we come, hundreds of us, blank-faced and rough (we can take it, god damn it!) over our silver bridge, smoking our cheap cigars in the grapefruit air; here we come, bulls stamping in cheap cotton, bad boys all; ah hell, we’d rather play the ponies or chance a sunburn at the shore, but we’re men, god damn it, me, can’t you see? Men, coming over our bridge, taking our Rome and our coffee, bitter, brave and numb.”
(p. 229) “all about me sit half-talents, and suddenly- I know that there is nothing more incomplete than a half-talent; a man should either be a genius or nothing at all”
(p. 230) “I want you to draw like Mondrian, he says;
but I don’t want to draw
like Mondrian,
I want to draw like a sparrow eaten by a cat”
(p. 45) “the legs are gone and the hopes – the lava of outpouring and I haven’t shaved in sixteen days but the mailman still makes his rounds and water still comes out of the faucet and I have a photo of myself with glazed and milky eyes full of simple music in golden trunks and 12 oz. gloves when I made the semi-finals only to be taken out by a German brute who should have been locked in a cage for the insane and allowed to drink blood. Now I am insane and stare at the wallpaper as one would stare at a Cezanne or an early Picasso (he has lost it), and I sent out the girls for beer, the old girls who barely bother to…”
(p. 52) “I want so much that is not here and do not know where to go”
(p. 107) “4:18 a.m., symphony #2, the gas is on but the masses still sleep except the bastard downstairs who always has the light on all night, he yawns all night and sleeps all day, he’s either a madman or a poet; and has an ugly wife, neither of them work and we pass each other on the steps (the wife and I) when we go down to dup our bottles, and I look at his name on the mailbox: Fleg. God. No wonder. A fleg never sleeps. Some kind of fish-thing waiting for a twist in the sky.”
(p. 135) “her skin is white and sagging, she has on a purple understlip. This is what causes wars, great paintings, suicides, harps, geognosy and hermits.”
(p. 139) “it is fairly dismal to know that millions of people are worried about the hydrogen bomb yet they are already dead. Yet they keep trying to make women, money, sense. And finally the Great Bartender will lean forward, white and pure and strong and mystic, to tell you that you’ve had enough just when you feel like you’re getting started”
(p. 177) “so being a poltroon, I have read the classics, I have argued in the marketplace, I have been drunk with the immortals: I have listened to these children cry that language is too huge a bone for all of us: even the finer wits have dulled their massive teeth. Let me be fuddled in the glade, numb with the growth of fancy; let me find me and dogs, and children, let me find towers and lattice sawing in the sun, and a God of Life instead of Death.”
(p. 182) “I go inside to wife and hound, both fat and soft as peaches under the sun. I shave by cndlefat and lightning. I shave by their holy silence, in a shattered mirror.”
(p. 228) “…here we come, hundreds of us, blank-faced and rough (we can take it, god damn it!) over our silver bridge, smoking our cheap cigars in the grapefruit air; here we come, bulls stamping in cheap cotton, bad boys all; ah hell, we’d rather play the ponies or chance a sunburn at the shore, but we’re men, god damn it, me, can’t you see? Men, coming over our bridge, taking our Rome and our coffee, bitter, brave and numb.”
(p. 229) “all about me sit half-talents, and suddenly- I know that there is nothing more incomplete than a half-talent; a man should either be a genius or nothing at all”
(p. 230) “I want you to draw like Mondrian, he says;
but I don’t want to draw
like Mondrian,
I want to draw like a sparrow eaten by a cat”
July 13, 2016
"Wow Dad, what was Charles Bukowski like when he was a younger author and hadn't quite found his voice just yet?" "Well Billy, if you want to know that, then read The Roominghouse Madrigals."
So this is Bukowski when he was still trying to find his voice as an author. This should come as little surprise as this collection dates takes works from 1946-1956. It is an interesting work for one who wants to know what an early Bukowski was like. I will give you a hint, the majority seem like they are him copying another authors voice in an attempt to find his own. Don't get me wrong. Some are pretty good. However others seem laden down with excessive verbiage and read as if he is trying to sound like a hipster. They are not bad, but they are definitely a different Bukowski from his later voices.
So this is Bukowski when he was still trying to find his voice as an author. This should come as little surprise as this collection dates takes works from 1946-1956. It is an interesting work for one who wants to know what an early Bukowski was like. I will give you a hint, the majority seem like they are him copying another authors voice in an attempt to find his own. Don't get me wrong. Some are pretty good. However others seem laden down with excessive verbiage and read as if he is trying to sound like a hipster. They are not bad, but they are definitely a different Bukowski from his later voices.
February 12, 2012
I LOVED. Anybody who has ever spent time in the roominghouses of rough streets and/or their own soul will find things here that they recognize in their beauty, ugliness and honesty. The rest of my review can be found here: http://chris-west.blogspot.com/2012/0...
April 2, 2020
My least favorite of Bukowski's work. It's rife with all his customary self-indulgence (which sort of works in his later poetry because there's a kind of unpretentious honesty about it), but has little or none of the almost Solomonic atmosphere he develops later on. Still, there are glimpses even here of how much better he would one day become.
April 24, 2024
A really fantastic collection of Buk’s early works before he started writing full time. For the record’s sake, I wish it said which chap book each poem was from or have all the early chap books collected in one volume; but this book does well in collecting his early writings.
It’s very interesting to see how he starts to find his voice and where the recurring themes take root. Instead of looking back on his times in cheap roominghouses and young poverty, here it is written in the moment. At times, it almost seems like Bukowski is approaching Beat territory with how lyrical he gets. I think it’s gonna be hard for the next book of his poetry to match how much I liked this one!
It’s very interesting to see how he starts to find his voice and where the recurring themes take root. Instead of looking back on his times in cheap roominghouses and young poverty, here it is written in the moment. At times, it almost seems like Bukowski is approaching Beat territory with how lyrical he gets. I think it’s gonna be hard for the next book of his poetry to match how much I liked this one!
February 9, 2023
Hier overstemd Bukowskies visie van de wereld zijn artistieke vaardigheden. Het word moeilijk de kunst te onderscheiden van problematisch gedrag reinforcen
August 22, 2025
Me gusta este libro. Puedes notar que Bukowski necesitaba escribir para vivir, no me refiero económicamente. A veces es demasiado desagradable, pero ¿Qué vas a esperar de Bukowski y por qué te mentiría en sus poemas?
September 5, 2023
harrowing. as always.
if it doesn’t take you months to finish his books, you aren’t processing them correctly and therefore you’re reading them wrong.
this was the book of summer 2023.
October 27, 2013
... the teeth of my soul ache... (EATEN BY BUTTERFLIES)
I once heard James Ellroy say Charles Bukowski was a fraud. My introduction to Bukowski came when I was a green, 17 year old, living in the confines of rural Georgia at the dawn of the 70s. It was a documentary on Georgia Public Television. I had arrived home from my job keeping score at Little League baseball games, pulled out my TV dinner from the oven, set up the TV tray, and turned on the TV. There was a grizzled guy sitting on a stage at a table with a full-sized refrigerator behind him. He got up, opened the fridge (which was full of long-necked bottles)and pulled out a beer. A heckler yelled out something. What I remember Buk saying was, "One more beer and I'll take you on." (to the heckler) "Hell, one more beer and I'll take you all on." (to the crowd) 40+ years later I still like reading the guy's poems.
This volume is a collection of early poems, most I had not, I don't think, read. It contains two of my favorites, however: BIG BASTARD WITH A SWORD and 86'd. Bukowski has his detractors, but I've always appreciated the element of protest in his poetry. How can you not pause when you read:
... one-third of the world starving while
I am indecent enough to worry about my own death
like some monkey engrossed with his flea... (I WRITE THIS UPON THE LAST DRINK'S HAMMER)
or reflect or nod when you read:
but I walk outside
and the heinous men
the steel men
who believe in the privacy of a wallet
and cement
and chosen occasions only
Christmas New Year's the 4th of July
to attempt to manifest a life
that has lain in a drawer like a single glove
that is brought out like a fist:
too much and too late.... (I WRITE THIS UPON THE LAST DRINK'S HAMMER)
In Bukowski's burdened observations, I find many arresting descriptions which often elicit a chuckle. He's certainly not to everyone's liking. I find it still worth the effort, though he himself says:
my poems are only scratchings
on the floor of a
cage. (EATEN BY BUTTERFLIES)
I once heard James Ellroy say Charles Bukowski was a fraud. My introduction to Bukowski came when I was a green, 17 year old, living in the confines of rural Georgia at the dawn of the 70s. It was a documentary on Georgia Public Television. I had arrived home from my job keeping score at Little League baseball games, pulled out my TV dinner from the oven, set up the TV tray, and turned on the TV. There was a grizzled guy sitting on a stage at a table with a full-sized refrigerator behind him. He got up, opened the fridge (which was full of long-necked bottles)and pulled out a beer. A heckler yelled out something. What I remember Buk saying was, "One more beer and I'll take you on." (to the heckler) "Hell, one more beer and I'll take you all on." (to the crowd) 40+ years later I still like reading the guy's poems.
This volume is a collection of early poems, most I had not, I don't think, read. It contains two of my favorites, however: BIG BASTARD WITH A SWORD and 86'd. Bukowski has his detractors, but I've always appreciated the element of protest in his poetry. How can you not pause when you read:
... one-third of the world starving while
I am indecent enough to worry about my own death
like some monkey engrossed with his flea... (I WRITE THIS UPON THE LAST DRINK'S HAMMER)
or reflect or nod when you read:
but I walk outside
and the heinous men
the steel men
who believe in the privacy of a wallet
and cement
and chosen occasions only
Christmas New Year's the 4th of July
to attempt to manifest a life
that has lain in a drawer like a single glove
that is brought out like a fist:
too much and too late.... (I WRITE THIS UPON THE LAST DRINK'S HAMMER)
In Bukowski's burdened observations, I find many arresting descriptions which often elicit a chuckle. He's certainly not to everyone's liking. I find it still worth the effort, though he himself says:
my poems are only scratchings
on the floor of a
cage. (EATEN BY BUTTERFLIES)
June 28, 2013
Not the Bukowski I'm use to reading and hearing. I'm led to believe these are the early verses. In them hides the Bukowski that eventually emerges with the terse, direct approach that seemed naked to me, hiding nothing, hiding behind nothing. His honesty flagrant, pointing to the readers insecurities as well as his own. Here Bukowski's poems feel almost formal or at least dressed up. As if he is saying, If I'm going to express this (what some my deem) vulgar, violent or maybe working-class sentiment, I must show you that I'm aware of W.C. Williams and the American idiom. Thankfully, we know that Bukowski's evolution soon said goodbye to kissing up to or paying tribute to the academic line and allowed his own voice to take him through the body of work he left behind for us to love and admire.
April 3, 2019
I read Bukowski to stay sane. I've read most of his published works and rue the day I've read them all. After almost two decades of reading Hank, I feel I'm getting somewhat well-versed about the man and his art. This collection of his early poetics, spanning twenty years, lacks cohesion, but perhaps the glue that holds it together is the evidence of Buk experimenting with form, discovering his voice, betting on the muse. It's still an enjoyable read, but perhaps I've grown accustomed to the older, wiser Bukowski - the grizzled sage, the pensive gnarled saint and sinner huddled at the typer with a long-distance view to grace and a settled sense of identity. Or maybe, and most likely, it's just me - my twenty-five year-old self may have had a different opinion.
November 25, 2016
I've always had a weird relationship with Bukowski. One day I find him dull and vapid, and others I am uplifted and enlightened by his strange moral code and unexpected lyricism. This collection of his early poems is more the latter, as he tends to explore language more before he became entrenched in his signature style of terse macho grunts complaining of the hardships of life or describing the simple beauty of the everyday. This collection is definitely one of my favorites. I'll revisit this often.
September 5, 2009
I don't envy the life he must have lived/endured, but I was amazed by the imagery of his poems. My favorites are "22,000 dollars in three months" and especially "3:30 a.m. conversation". Poetry, like much of art, is subjective. You're either going to love it, or dismiss it. Its a book of poems from a 20 year period, and some are great, and some are not, but I gave it 4 stars for the ones that left such an impression at the time of reading, like a tattoo in the fissure of my brain.
March 17, 2019
These were some of Bukowsi's earlier poems. They are written at times in a lyrical way as opposed to his latter poems. Some people like the earlier works better, and some like is latter poems better. I liked them both.
These poems were written before he started to have some luck with his writing. The poems are raw, and emotive and strikes a cord with the reader on a profound level.
As Bukowski continued to write, his poems got alot less lyrical and more prose like.
These poems were written before he started to have some luck with his writing. The poems are raw, and emotive and strikes a cord with the reader on a profound level.
As Bukowski continued to write, his poems got alot less lyrical and more prose like.
August 21, 2008
I guess a lot of people find these earlier poems superior to Buk's later work, but I missed the Hank style I originally fell in love with. Don't misunderstand me, this book confirms Charlie's place as my favorite poet but I just did not find the works as engaging as his other published stuff. Definitely worth a read for any fan or not.
May 12, 2014
The Roominghouse Madrigals: Early Selected Poems, 1946-1966 by Charles Bukowski (Harper Collins 1988)(811). Two-hundred-fifty-six pages of poetry - the table of contents alone is four pages long - and there's not a single poem in the whole book that I liked! My rating: 4/10, finished 5/12/14.
March 10, 2015
This is only the second book by Bukowski that I've read, the first being short stories called Hot Water Music. I admit that I don't exactly understand most of his poems. But the thing about them is something I can't quite describe. There is such an enormous presence in his works. It's as if Bukowski tears out of the book and bum rushes you. The allure of his stories and poems is inescapable.
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