Introduction
Poetry is a hit-or-miss thing for me - and mostly miss, if truth be told. I find the vast majority of modern poetry to be pretentious garbage, too clever for its own good, too inert to inspire, too unwilling to take chances, too narcissistic, too bound by rules, too timid to get in your face and provoke, too shiny, too happy, too opaque, and all in all, just so many dead letters sprinkled with flowers trying and failing to birth verse that mimics life.
One remarkable exception to this awful trend is the poetry of Charles Bukowski. Buk lived a hard life. His father beat the shit out of him on a regular basis when he was a kid. He suffered from disfiguring acne as a teenager. Later, he worked in a pickle factory, drank a lot, worked at the Post Office, drank some more, womanized, and gambled away what little money he had. He often lived in squalor and could be a mean sonofabitch. But he took those hard cards that life had dealt him and made some damn fine poetry. Most lives lived in such decadent excess would leave nothing behind other than to serve as cautionary tales. But for someone as talented as Bukowski, the wreckage of his life was all source material.
Reading a Bukowski poem, one quickly understands that this was not a poseur trying to fake feelings he's never really experienced. He's not out to impress you with faux-profundity that is nothing more than the dull echoes of better poetry written by better poets. No, his language is simple, and his delivery stark, but it packs a punch.
I imagine Bukowski sitting down with a cigarette dangling from his mouth and pecking these poems out on his typewriter all in one sitting, with the words going from his mind straight onto the paper, landing where they may, and him thinking all the while, 'Take it or leave it, assholes!' And yet, he manages to connect with more meaning and depth and humor and sarcasm than you might expect.
Sometimes his poems are more like short stories. Sometimes they feel like non-sequiturs. He can make you smile, wince, and gasp, all in the space of a few lines. And yet so much of Bukowski's poetry is absolutely and wonderfully beautiful, without shamelessly trying to be so. I admire that.
By the way, that was Bukowski's advice to writers: "Don't try." In fact, it's on his gravestone.
Bukowski once explained his writing philosophy in more detail.
"Somebody asked me: "What do you do? How do you write, create?" You don't, I told them. You don't try. That's very important: not to try, either for Cadillacs, creation or immortality. You wait, and if nothing happens, you wait some more. It's like a bug high on the wall. You wait for it to come to you. When it gets close enough you reach out, slap out and kill it. Or if you like its looks, you make a pet out of it." - Charles Bukowski
So, here are a few of my favorites from The Last Night of the Earth Poems, published in 1992 by Black Sparrow Press. My signed limited edition copy was a gift from my late father-in-law, Mike Nunn, a lifelong Bukowski fan and the guy who introduced me to this gifted poet so many years ago.
Thanks for that, Mike, wherever you are now. You made me a richer man for doing so.
I hope you all enjoy these as much as I do.
Note: The following poems are taken from my copy of The Last Night of the Earth Poems. I've kept the formatting - line breaks, punctuation, capitalization - the same.
bluebird
there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I’m not going
to let anybody see
you.
there’s a bluebird in my heart
that wants to get out
but I pour whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette smoke
and the whores and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that
he’s
in there.
there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too tough for him,
I say,
stay down, do you want to mess
me up?
you want to screw up the
works? you want to blow my book sales in
Europe?
there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too clever, I only let him out
at night sometimes
when everybody’s asleep.
I say, I know that you’re there,
so don’t be
sad.
then I put him back,
but he’s singing a little
in there, I haven’t quite let him
die
and we sleep together like
that
with our
secret pact
and it’s nice enough to
make a man
weep, but I don’t
weep, do
you?
nirvana
not much chance,
completely cut loose from
purpose,
he was a young man
riding a bus
through North Carolina
on the way to
somewhere
and it began to snow
and the bus stopped
at a little cafe
in the hills
and the passengers
entered.
he sat at the counter
with the others,
he ordered and the
food arrived.
the meal was
particularly
good
and the
coffee.
the waitress was
unlike the women
he had
known.
she was unaffected,
there was a natural
humor which came
from her.
the fry cook said
crazy things.
the dishwasher,
in back,
laughed, a good
clean
pleasant
laugh.
the young man watched
the snow through the
windows.
he wanted to stay
in that cafe
forever.
the curious feeling
swam through him
that everything
was
beautiful
there,
that it would always
stay beautiful
there.
then the bus driver
told the passengers
that it was time
to board.
the young man
thought, I’ll just sit
here, I’ll just stay
here.
but then
he rose and followed
the others into the
bus.
he found his seat
and looked at the cafe
through the bus
window.
then the bus moved
off, down a curve,
downward, out of
the hills.
the young man
looked straight
forward.
he heard the other
passengers
speaking
of other things,
or they were
reading
or
attempting to
sleep.
they had not
noticed
the
magic.
the young man
put his head to
one side,
closed his
eyes,
pretended to
sleep.
there was nothing
else to do—
just listen to the
sound of the
engine,
the sound of the
tires
in the
snow.
be kind
we are always asked
to understand the other person’s
viewpoint
no matter how
out-dated
foolish or
obnoxious.
one is asked
to view
their total error
their life-waste
with
kindliness,
especially if they are
aged.
but age
is the total of
our doing.
they have aged
badly
because they have
lived
out of focus,
they have refused to
see.
not their fault?
whose fault?
mine?
I am asked to hide
my viewpoint
from them
or fear of their
fear.
age is no crime
but the shame
of a deliberately
wasted
life
among so many
deliberately
wasted
lives
is.
the man with the beautiful eyes
when we were kids
there was a strange house
all the shades were
always
drawn
and we never heard voices
in there
and the yard was full of
bamboo
and we liked to play in
the bamboo
pretend we were
Tarzan
(although there was no
Jane).
and there was a
fish pond
a large one
full of the
fattest goldfish
you ever saw
and they were
tame.
they came to the
surface of the water
and took pieces of
bread
from our hands.
our parents had
told us:
“never go near that
house.”
so, of course,
we went.
we wondered if anybody
lived there.
weeks went by and we
never saw
anybody.
then one day
we heard
a voice
from the house
“YOU GOD DAMNED
WHORE!”
it was a man’s
voice.
then the screen
door
of the house was
flung open
and the man
walked
out.
he was holding a
fifth of whiskey
in his right
hand.
he was about
30.
he had a cigar
in his
mouth,
needed a
shave.
his hair was
wild and
uncombed
and he was
barefoot
in undershirt
and pants.
but his eyes
were
bright.
they blazed
with
brightness
and he said,
“hey little
gentlemen,
having a good
time, I
hope?”
then he gave a
little laugh
and walked
back into the
house.
we left,
went back to my
parents' yard
and thought
about it.
our parents,
we decided
had wanted us
to stay away
from there
because they
never wanted us
to see a man
like
that,
a strong natural
man
with
beautiful
eyes.
our parents
were ashamed
that they were
not
like that
man,
that’s why they
wanted us
to stay
away.
but
we went back
to that house
and the bamboo
and the tame
goldfish.
we went back
many times
for many
weeks
but we never
saw
or heard
the man
again.
the shades were
down
as always
and it was
quiet.
then one day
as we came back from
school
we saw the
house.
it had burned
down,
there was nothing
left,
just a smoldering
twisted black
foundation
and we went to
the fish pond
and there was
no water
in it
and the fat
orange goldfish
were dead
there,
drying out.
we went back to
my parents’ yard
and talked about
it
and decided that
our parents had
burned their
house down,
had killed
them
had killed the
goldfish
because it was
all too
beautiful,
even the bamboo forest had
burned.
they had been
afraid of
the man with the
beautiful
eyes.
and
we were afraid
then
that
all through our lives
things like that
would
happen,
that nobody
wanted
anybody
to be
strong and
beautiful
like that,
that
others would never
allow it,
and that
many people
would have to
die.
victory
what bargains we have made
we have
kept
and as the dogs of the hours
close in
nothing
can be taken
from us
but
our lives.
the damnation of Buk
getting old, and older, concerned that
you might not get your driver’s license
renewed, concerned that the hangovers
last longer, concerned that you might
not reach the age of 85,
concerned that the poems will stop
arriving.
concerned that you are concerned.
concerned that you might die in the
spa.
concerned that you might die on the
freeway while driving in from the
track.
concerned that you might die in your
lap pool.
concerned that the remainder of your
teeth
will not last.
concerned about dying but not about
death.
concerned that people will no longer
consider you dangerous when
drunk.
concerned that you will forget who
the enemy is.
concerned that you will forget how to
laugh.
concerned that there will be nothing to
drink in hell.
and concerned you will have to
listen to
one poetry reading
after another
after another…
the Los Angeles poets
the New York poets
the Iowa poets
the black poets
the white poets
the Chicano poets
the 3rd world poets
the female poets
the homosexual poets
the lesbian poets
the bisexual poets
the sexless poets
the failed poets
the famous poets
the dead poets
the etc. poets
concerned that the toteboard will
explode into flowers of
shit
and the night will never
come.
the aliens
you may not believe it
but there are people
who go through life with
very little friction or
distress.
they dress well, eat
well, sleep well.
they are contented with
their family
life.
they have moments of
grief but all in
all they are undisturbed
and often feel
very good.
and when they die
it is an easy
death, usually in their
sleep.
you may not believe
it
but such people do
exist.
but I am not one of
them. oh no, I am not one
of them,
I am not even near
to being
one of
them
but they are
there
and I am
here.
the area of pause
you have to have it or the walls will close
in. you have to give everything up, throw it
away, everything away.
you have to look at what you look at
or think what you think
or do what you do
or
don’t do
without considering personal
advantage
without accepting guidance.
people are worn away with
striving,
they hide in common
habits.
their concerns are herd
concerns.
few have the ability to stare
at an old shoe for
ten minutes
or to think of odd things
like who invented the
doorknob?
they become unalive
because they are unable to
pause
undo themselves
unkink
unsee
unlearn
roll clear.
listen to their untrue
laughter, then
walk
away.
splashing
dumb,
Jesus Christ,
some people are so dumb
you can hear them
splashing around
in their dumbness
as their eyes
look out of their
heads.
they have
most of their
parts: hands, feet,
ears, legs, elbows,
intestines, fingernails,
noses and so
forth
but
there’s nothing
there
yet
they are able to
speak,
form sentences—
but what
comes out
of their mouths
are the stalest
concepts, the most
warped beliefs,
they are the repository
of all the obvious
stupidities
they have
stuffed
themselves
with
and it hurts me
to
look at them
to
listen to them,
I want to
run and hide
I want to
escape their engulfing
nullity
there is no
horror movie
worse,
no murder
as
unsolved
but
the world
goes on
and
they
go on
dumbly
slamming
my guts to
pieces.
in the shadow of the rose
branching out, grubbing down,
taking stairways down to hell,
reestablishing the vanishing
point, trying a different
bat, a different stance,
altering diet and manner of
walking, readjusting the
system, photographing your
dinosaur dream,
driving your machine with
more grace and care,
noticing the flowers talking
to you,
realizing the gigantic agony
of the terrapin,
you pray for rain like an
Indian,
slide a fresh clip into the
automatic,
turn out the lights and
wait.
Bukowski, Charles. The Last Night of the Earth Poems. Black Sparrow Press, 1992.
Supplementary Material
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PDW
Paris, France
October 2020