The second of five new books of unpublished poems from the late, great, Charles Bukowski, America's most imitated and influential poet –– 143 never–before–seen works of gritty, amusing, and inspiring verse.
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.
As much as I love the fire and beerspit of Buk's early works, the honest beauty and abrupt wit of his poems are most evident in his later stuff. Bukowski wears the perspective of an older man well.
This collection was a bit more structured than others I've read, both in terms of the book's arrangement (there was a deliberate and apparent pattern in the poems' organization) and in the actual construction of the poems -- form isn't something I've come to expect from literature's favorite dirty old man. It was a little jarring and it did make the flow drag a bit in patches.
A turbulent history and failing health clearly are the driving forces behind these collected works. But instead of falling into sentimental stickiness, the dryly humorous observations Bukowski does so well are expertly executed here. At an age when most writers are losing the best of their art, Buk's showing that his lifetime was spent becoming a master of the craft.
Ecco Press has published several volumes of posthumous poetry from Charles Bukowski. I first became a fan of Buk's in the early '90's when I was a young man just starting out. Each collection is full of raw vitality, but as a warning "Hank" is not for every reader. There are several previously unpublished gems here, and old themes sometimes revisited. I admire Bukowski's work mostly because it shows that a non-academic can succeed in the literary world with a lot of persistence and effort, but also of course a little luck, too, goes a long way. Bukowski is truly the Bard of East Hollywood.
This is my favorite of Bukowski's posthumous works of poetry. He writes of aging and success, something he earned after all the years of hell he endured. His poems on aging are telling, but not overly sentimental, in my opinion. You still have the standard Bukowski fare too, with racetracks, gambling, girls, drinking, etc. You'll never be free of that when reading Buk. I've read this book four times now and have enjoyed it more each time, and indeed, I think it's so good that it fits into the canon of books he published while he was alive -- this isn't just left over crap. This is good stuff!
Churlish and misanthropic. I don't think most of these poems deserve publication. It's all amazingly repetitive blokey narcissism. I laughed a couple of times. That was as good as it got.
Who is Bukowski? Bukowski is a crazy alcholic bastard who gets his feels for having sex, drinking, and writing. Or well he was before he died a while back. Charles is my favorite poet of all time. He expresses himself so much and literally throws himself into his writing.
There seems to be two main categories for Bukowski's poetry:
His drunken, women filled, madness of a life. And his struggle to get through his own life.
I love both of them but I prefer the second. His feelings and emotions in his broken poems are so real. So real that I was brought to tears with his honesty and story.
I have a quote wall. I write on post-it notes and just stick them on my wall. I swear that Bukowski owns at least 75% of that wall. Because honestly Bukowski writes about a lot of what I feel everyday. No, I'm not an alcholic or anything truely like Bukowski, but I feel like him.
I felt marvelous, I felt like I owned a piece of the sun.
Poetry is what happens when nothing else can.
I write poetry as well. To get through a lot of personal problems and because I just love writing beautiful poetry. It seems to me that Bukowski and I have very similar poetry, maybe that is why I like him so much.
If only there were more magic people to help us through this strange life.
They simply don't understand do they, that sometimes solitude is on of the most beautiful things on this earth?
Bukowski is the guy that got me into poetry. Also that it is true, Poetry truly does happen when nothing else can. But you can't just make the words come out, they have to happen. Swish threw our brain and unto the paper like magic.
How brave we are to continue walking through this terrible flame as the sun stuns us, as we go on our way, as we float in our pain, kick our feet, wiggle our toes, while listening to inept melodies that float in the air, as agony eats the soul. Yes, I think we are admirable and brave but we should have quit long ago, don't you think?
So am I recommending this book and author to you? Well it depends. I think that it takes a type of person to like his work, but I sure as hell do.
All of those small inevitable details and sorrows rub and push continually against the moments, the days, the years, until one almost wishes, almost begs for a larger more meaningful destiny.
The only thing I learned throughout reading this book is that Charles Bukowski has such an inflated sense of self-worth I’m not sure how that man fit his head into any contained spaces. I can’t understand how anyone enjoys this “collection of poems”. It’s understandable to write poems about your life if it was interesting & trust me it seems likes Charles’ was incredibly boring & dull. Embellishments were necessary in this book & he didn’t deliver. He was a sexist drunk who had too many bad ideas that weren’t shot down. Some of the topics in this book are just ridiculous, & nothing about this work showed any talent or vision, it was dreadful to drag myself through this. His mistakes, choices, and moral decisions have no meaning because Bukowski never learns anything. We start at the beginning of his life and basically end there as well. It’s disgustingly misogynistic and pointless, seriously I thought the book might be a parody just a joke from Bukowski to see if anyone would actually read plain gibberish. If you like this book, you don’t- simply stop lying because it is a dumpster fire, so if you haven’t read it save yourself & don’t read it, it was stupid.
Bukowski, the later years. The best way to describe this collection is by the poem entitled: "A visitor Complains."
'hey, man." he said. I liked your poems better when you were puking and living with whores and hitting the bars and ending up in a drunk tank and getting into alley fights."
Bukowski has a rebuttal, but I won't spoil it for you... he has moved on from visitors like these.
Quantity over quality. Some stand out among the rest, but often it feels like he's saying the same things over and over again. Bukowski is very profilic, but his poetry is quite lazy.
"things never get so bad that we can't remember that maybe they were never so good."
Unlike his novels, Bukowski's poetry comes from a more subdued mind. A certain brashness still exists, but he is more thoughtful, more mellow. I found that most of his poetry was released posthumously: thousands of previously unprinted works left for his publisher to compile and put out after his death. Chief among criticisms is his misogyny, but again, that is mostly from his earlier days (though it does pop up in a few of these poems). As always, what you see is what you get with Bukowski: gritty, raw, and profound observations of the everyday world.
"it was nowhere near immortal then or now — just a drunken piece of sentimental trash."
This collection of poems is longer then life's work of many other poets. On the other hand, it is a different kind of poetry, you don't have to reread every poem, every verse and every word to fully appreciate it. I feel like it's best read in big chunks to fully enjoy the vibe of cranky old alcoholic remembering his adventurous youth. Some poems are really fun and worth reading on their own. Yet most of them are just about old Chinaski being Chinaski or reminiscing about it. I do like the honesty of this later texts but they still tend to be too angry, too sexist etc.
Even though I often feel like, if we met, he probably wouldn’t like me, I cannot get enough of Bukowski‘s work.
This collection was created from unpublished poems after he was dead. Something that I think he would have strongly disliked, since he seems to have a certain level of distrust and contempt for the publishing industry.
That being said, Some of these poems hit me like a sledgehammer. Especially the ones that deal with his near death experience and treatment for aggressive cancer.
I can highly recommend reading this book, and I think maybe he would’ve appreciated us giving him the middle finger by enjoying it .
This entire review has been hidden because of spoilers.
İlk Bukowski kitabımı lisede “yeraltı edebiyatı abiğ” diye gaza gelerek okumuştum ve aklımda cinsiyetçi, basit diliyle komik yazılar yazan bir sarhoş olarak kalmıştı. Yakın zamanda okuduğum postane kitabının üzerine bunu da okuyunca insanı içine çeken adını koyamadığım başka bir şey olduğunu farkettim. Bu kitabın ilk 3 kısmında daha düz yazımsı şiirleri varken postane kitabıyla epey paralellikler göstermekte bu yüzden de beni biraz sıkmıştı ama 4.kısım ve sonrasında daha derin ve edebi değeri yüksek oldukça kaliteli şiirler görmek mümkün.
I will be completely bias with my review because Charles Bukowski is my go-to writer of all time. The Flash of Lightning Behind the Mountain is a collection of poetry categorize into 4 parts. The beginning of his life as a postman, to finding his love, to meeting influential people, and his battle with leukemia. It's amazing that he writes humor in spite of his battles. Which is why he became my inspiration in writing.
I've read 90 percent of his poetry and this is one of the best collections. There's a bittersweet beauty to his later poems. A greater insight and understanding present more thanin his earlier work. He still writing about the racetrack, women, cats and life, but he's doing it knowing his days are numbered, and with an entirely different perspective.
nigdy by na to nie wpadła że napiszę scenariusz o dniach gdy piliśmy razem i że zrobią z tego film i że piękna gwiazda filmowa zagra jej rolę.
Jane powiedziałaby pewnie teraz: „Piękna gwiazda filmowa? rany boskie!” Jane, to jest szołbiz, więc śpij, kochanie, bo choćby nie wiem jak się starali po prostu nie mogliby znaleźć nikogo dokładnie takiego jak ty.
I’m surprised I’m giving this five stars, TBH. But there’s a vulnerability in these poems I don’t remember seeing when I’d read earlier Bukowski. There’s also a brutal economy to the prose that gets across his images and themes in so few words that I found really impressive. My poetry journey continues…
Bukowski'yi bana soranlara, onun cinsiyetçi bir adam olduğunu, bazen yerli yersiz saçma sapan hakaretler ettiğini söyleyip onu kötülerken buluyorum kendimi. Ama sonra tekrar şiirlerinin içinde kayboluyorum. Sanki karşılaşsak birbirimize epey bir giydirirmişiz gibi geliyor, ama bir yandan da aslında şiirlerinde bulduğum yalınlığı kendisiyle konuşmak istiyorum. Muhtemelen onun anlattığı şeyleri anlamıyorum. Muhtemelen benim anladığım şeyleri de o anlatmadı. Ama garip işte. Değişik bir bağlılık haline geldi bende şiirleri. Düz yazı metinlerinin, tomanlarının aksine sadece şiirleri bu kadar etkiliyor beni ve sadece şiirlerini topluyorum. Yazımın başına dönersek tavsiye eder miyim bilmiyorum. her seferinde bir kötüleme girişi yaparak anlatıyorum, karar okuyucuların.
For those who do not understand his cynical style, I pity you. One of my favorite books and writings of all time. At least the ones who love his dark humor mixed with his deep and intellectual narrative on the next poem, have a great sense of humor in this oversensitive and judgmental world we reside in.
Charles Bukowski is a great poet. This book published long after his death is raw, and honest poetry written pretty close to the end of his life. He lived life his way, and it’s the only way he wanted it to go. There is not another poet today that comes close to Bukowski. I loved it.
I don't generally write reviews but I have to say this collection features the worst poem I've ever read by him, fortunately it's short! Interesting that the original version, published by the New York Quarterly, says he reckons it'd be rejected, I wish it had! Apart from that this is a solid collection with a fair mix of young Buk and old Buk and I generally enjoyed it.
Поезія історій. Поезія про те, що все коли-небудь закінчується. Поезія відчуття близької смерті і постійне відчуття присутності минулого, яке нікуди не зникло, а завжди йде поруч. Завжди можна повернутись туди, але ніколи не хочеться.
Some of the poems are incredible and some are lackluster, but the thing I love about Bukowski is that he doesn't care what you think - his poems aren't for you, they're for the sake of creating, for writing, for recording thought and madness and living, and that's what makes them great.
Wtf did I just read?!?!?!? This was absolutely insane. I just couldn't read it anymore after his poem about how his friend molested someone and he was like yeah ok. I might be out of my mind but if you can, please help me like this white man