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You Get So Alone at Times That it Just Makes Sense
Charles Bukowski examines cats and his childhood in You Get So Alone at Times, a book of poetry that reveals his tender side. He delves into his youth to analyze its repercussions.
First published June 5, 1986
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About the author
Charles Bukowski
848 books29.6k 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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Currently reading
December 4, 2013The library is after me again to return this book to them. I just can't seem to let it go. I've taken to not answering my door in fear of an angry librarian come to collect on a raft of overdue fines. I think I might hide it inside my old toaster for a while just in case they break in and try to take it back.
Yes, it's that good.
And I'm a cheap bastard.
Yes, it's that good.
And I'm a cheap bastard.
February 3, 2010
Man, I wish you guys could see how banged-up and dog-eared my copy of "You Get So Alone" is. I think that's the only way I can do this collection justice. The poet as an older man lacks the vinegar and vitriol of his younger self, but being eight years from his death certainly infused these poems with the magnetic appeal of a someone who has seen enough to write about it however he damn well pleases. His rage has abated and a brutally subtle wit stepped up to fill its shoes, all to an immensely successful result.
So it seems like I like Bukowski's poetry the best, but I think it's because of the vast range that a poetry collection lends itself to. This wasn't so much piss and beer and swearing as it was reflection and thoughts on writing and spurts of darkly humorous observation (and, yes, there still are homages to the race track, drunken nights and loose women to give it that brand of Buk's I-don't-know-what). The poems within YGSAATTIJMS showcase my absolute favorite thing about literature's dirtiest old man: his ability to blend crass honesty with delicate beauty, embracing the dualities of the human condition like few others can.
So it seems like I like Bukowski's poetry the best, but I think it's because of the vast range that a poetry collection lends itself to. This wasn't so much piss and beer and swearing as it was reflection and thoughts on writing and spurts of darkly humorous observation (and, yes, there still are homages to the race track, drunken nights and loose women to give it that brand of Buk's I-don't-know-what). The poems within YGSAATTIJMS showcase my absolute favorite thing about literature's dirtiest old man: his ability to blend crass honesty with delicate beauty, embracing the dualities of the human condition like few others can.
July 25, 2014
While the Beat Generation was making its headway in literature with the likes of On the Road and Howl, Bukowski was, in most instances, dead drunk. In the post-World War II lit movement where the Beat Generation found its threshold, Bukowski was in engaged in what was to be a ten-year alcohol induced stupor predicated on his failure to initially break in the literary world. He actually wrote in a time after the Beat Generation, and this perhaps have brought contentions of whether he is actually a Beatnik himself. If the Beat Generation talks about bohemian hedonism advancing a firm denial of conformity through experimentation with drugs, repudiation of social constructs of gender and sexuality, negation of societal materialism, and most importantly, the depiction of human condition and emotion in its truest and most explicit state, then, this collection pretty much speaks for itself and saying that he really is part of the generation is not an unfounded conclusion.
In this collection, one will see that Bukowski is an honest man, a brutally honest man, whether that honesty is anchored on his drunkenness is something I have yet to read on. The topics are varied, from protitutes, antagonistic views on other writers, drinking, horse racing, hurling invectives, daily life observations, his cats, loneliness, and did I mention drinking?
beasts bounding through time
Van Gogh writing his brother for paints
Hemingway testing his shotgun
Celine going broke as a doctor of medicine
the impossibility of being human
Villon expelled from Paris for being a thief
Faulkner drunk in the gutters of his town
the impossibility of being human
Burroughs killing his wife with a gun
Mailer stabbing his
the impossibility of being human
Maupassant going mad in a rowboat
Dostoevsky lined up against a wall to be shot
Crane off the back of a boat into the propeller
the impossibility
Sylvia with her head in the oven like a baked potato
Harry Crosby leaping into that Black Sun
Lorca murdered in the road by the Spanish troops
the impossibility
Artaud sitting on a madhouse bench
Chatterton drinking rat poison
Shakespeare a plagiarist
Beethoven with a horn stuck into his head against deafness
the impossibility the impossibility
Nietzsche gone totally mad
the impossibility of being human
all too human
this breathing
in and out
out and in
these punks
these cowards
these champions
these mad dogs of glory
moving this little bit of light toward
us
impossibly.
As the title would suggest, loneliness abound the poems, but underneath it, just beyond the listless landscape that define most of our lives, lives a triumphant man who seem to have come into terms with loneliness itself not by finding meaning in others but by remaining firm and steadfast, unyielding, choosing to live in loneliness itself.
how is your heart?
...what matters most is
how well you
walk through the
fire.
Indeed Bukowski, indeed!
In this collection, one will see that Bukowski is an honest man, a brutally honest man, whether that honesty is anchored on his drunkenness is something I have yet to read on. The topics are varied, from protitutes, antagonistic views on other writers, drinking, horse racing, hurling invectives, daily life observations, his cats, loneliness, and did I mention drinking?
beasts bounding through time
Van Gogh writing his brother for paints
Hemingway testing his shotgun
Celine going broke as a doctor of medicine
the impossibility of being human
Villon expelled from Paris for being a thief
Faulkner drunk in the gutters of his town
the impossibility of being human
Burroughs killing his wife with a gun
Mailer stabbing his
the impossibility of being human
Maupassant going mad in a rowboat
Dostoevsky lined up against a wall to be shot
Crane off the back of a boat into the propeller
the impossibility
Sylvia with her head in the oven like a baked potato
Harry Crosby leaping into that Black Sun
Lorca murdered in the road by the Spanish troops
the impossibility
Artaud sitting on a madhouse bench
Chatterton drinking rat poison
Shakespeare a plagiarist
Beethoven with a horn stuck into his head against deafness
the impossibility the impossibility
Nietzsche gone totally mad
the impossibility of being human
all too human
this breathing
in and out
out and in
these punks
these cowards
these champions
these mad dogs of glory
moving this little bit of light toward
us
impossibly.
As the title would suggest, loneliness abound the poems, but underneath it, just beyond the listless landscape that define most of our lives, lives a triumphant man who seem to have come into terms with loneliness itself not by finding meaning in others but by remaining firm and steadfast, unyielding, choosing to live in loneliness itself.
how is your heart?
...what matters most is
how well you
walk through the
fire.
Indeed Bukowski, indeed!
July 7, 2016
You get so alone at times that it just makes sense to walk into a bookstore, flip through this book, take it to your table, buy a vanilla latte, and become immersed in words that seem simple, yet they have so much depth. It just makes sense to buy this collection, read it slowly, and spend a couple of weeks with verse arranged in such a way they pierce the everydayness. It just makes sense to spend some time with a poet like Bukowski, who is not afraid to write about the ordinary, flawed self:
Sometimes it just makes sense to read poetry, so you see narrative appear in line format, so you read stories rearranged succinctly in poetic style. It just makes sense when words appear so simply, yet so poignantly:
Bukowski was an alcoholic who had a tainted history with women, this is clear when you read this collection, and in some places it gets a bit repetitive. I was lured by the title of this collection and I really did fall in love with the singularity of most of these poems. I'm just not in love with the collection, with the poems chosen to be pieced together (some poems could have been excluded). Call it an editing thing for me. But really, when it comes to style, the guy had it.
Some favorites:
"oh yes"
"for my ivy league friends"
"bumming with Jane"
"no help for that"
"downtown L.A."
"miracle"
"marching through georgia"
"beasts bounding through time"
sometimes when everything seems at
its worst
when all conspires
and gnaws
and the hours, days, weeks
years
seem wasted--
stretched there upon my bed
in the dark
looking upward at the ceiling
I get what many will consider an
obnoxious thought:
it's still nice to be
Bukowski.
(from "well, that's just the way it is…")
Sometimes it just makes sense to read poetry, so you see narrative appear in line format, so you read stories rearranged succinctly in poetic style. It just makes sense when words appear so simply, yet so poignantly:
there's nothing to
discuss
there's nothing to
remember
there's nothing to
forget
it's sad
and
it's not
sad
(from "the finest of the breed")
Bukowski was an alcoholic who had a tainted history with women, this is clear when you read this collection, and in some places it gets a bit repetitive. I was lured by the title of this collection and I really did fall in love with the singularity of most of these poems. I'm just not in love with the collection, with the poems chosen to be pieced together (some poems could have been excluded). Call it an editing thing for me. But really, when it comes to style, the guy had it.
Some favorites:
"oh yes"
"for my ivy league friends"
"bumming with Jane"
"no help for that"
"downtown L.A."
"miracle"
"marching through georgia"
"beasts bounding through time"
April 25, 2020
I have had this book on my bedside table for months, with a few other books, mainly poetry that I try to read poem by poem, not to rush the experience of this tiny crystalized form of literary meditation. But not to lead you astray; Bukowski is not Neruda or Mary Oliver, a poet of great depth. Buk is very often the anti-poet, the poet of the gutter, the nihilist who sometimes reveals he still has a heart. The poet of anti-intellectuals who still likes his Brahms and Mozart, the poet of booze and “call girls” (I was looking for a word other than the one he uses) and betting on the ponies and raging drunken mad fights with mad women. All he really wants is to be alone with his typewriter, typing poem after poem.
Buk is already aware that most of his readers want him drunk and “whoring” (sorry) in his poems, even though in some of them he is quietly home with his wife and not so crazy, and financially comfortable, so it’s sad to see he gives em what they want, but that is in fact what most people want from him, the gutter, the bemused nihilism. Stuff like this, romanticizing the down and out (an excerpt):
Flophouse
you haven't lived
until you've been in a
flophouse
with nothing but one
light bulb
and 56 men
squeezed together
on cots
with everybody
snoring
at once
and some of those
snores
so
deep and
gross and
unbelievable-
I love the title of this book and I like the title poem; here it is:
https://genius.com/Charles-bukowski-y...
This book is a 1986 collection and most of the poems are just quick unedited emails to you, mediocre, some of them crap and he’d probably agree, as I think his earlier collection Burning in Water, Drowning in Flame (1974?) had much better stuff in it. But reading this book was like being put to sleep by my Uncle Lee, 300 pound truck driver, chain smoker who died at 80 pounds of lung cancer, huge drunk who called me Crock (Davey Crocket) and willed me (more than fifty years ago) his gun and a Manzanita knife and his bowling ball and shoes I still use, they fit me perfectly, if in fact my Uncle Lee had read Dostoevsky and John Fante and Celine and typed every day of his life. It's not great writing, there's only handful of poems I really liked, but I like him talking to me once in a while. Reminds me of younger days, so four stars instead of three though it isn't his best work.
Here’s Alone with Everybody:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wAfOq...
Bluebird is not in this collection, but what the hell, you’re welcome:
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?
Buk is already aware that most of his readers want him drunk and “whoring” (sorry) in his poems, even though in some of them he is quietly home with his wife and not so crazy, and financially comfortable, so it’s sad to see he gives em what they want, but that is in fact what most people want from him, the gutter, the bemused nihilism. Stuff like this, romanticizing the down and out (an excerpt):
Flophouse
you haven't lived
until you've been in a
flophouse
with nothing but one
light bulb
and 56 men
squeezed together
on cots
with everybody
snoring
at once
and some of those
snores
so
deep and
gross and
unbelievable-
I love the title of this book and I like the title poem; here it is:
https://genius.com/Charles-bukowski-y...
This book is a 1986 collection and most of the poems are just quick unedited emails to you, mediocre, some of them crap and he’d probably agree, as I think his earlier collection Burning in Water, Drowning in Flame (1974?) had much better stuff in it. But reading this book was like being put to sleep by my Uncle Lee, 300 pound truck driver, chain smoker who died at 80 pounds of lung cancer, huge drunk who called me Crock (Davey Crocket) and willed me (more than fifty years ago) his gun and a Manzanita knife and his bowling ball and shoes I still use, they fit me perfectly, if in fact my Uncle Lee had read Dostoevsky and John Fante and Celine and typed every day of his life. It's not great writing, there's only handful of poems I really liked, but I like him talking to me once in a while. Reminds me of younger days, so four stars instead of three though it isn't his best work.
Here’s Alone with Everybody:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wAfOq...
Bluebird is not in this collection, but what the hell, you’re welcome:
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?
February 2, 2009
This book makes me wonder if Charles Bukowski was the loneliest man on Earth. (Not as an insult)
I'll further explain my feelings towards this book with the texts exchanged between me and a friend (starting with me):
- "It's funny, the reason I can't just sit through a bukowski book and finish it at once is because he actually kinda starts to annoy me after a while... ha"
- "I can see that. But how so?"
- "It's too hard to explain in a text or even a few sentences, we'll just have to look at the book together sometime so I can explain. I still love him but if me and him were friends, we'd probably fight all the time just like he did with his girlfriends, except without being his girlfriend."
But you see, the point here really is, he obviously gets people talking about him, so I guess he wins. But I think I know a few reasons why. He is "brutally honest" most of the time, which most people are afraid of. He's not afraid of talking shit about anyone, including himself, and he'll tell stories of just about anyone he's had in his life. I think this is what makes readers feel like they're really in on something special, or feel some kind of connection with him. People are more easily drawn to other people who open themselves up and share things with you, and sometimes Bukowski's poems are more like a diary. Much of this book is a diary of the past. (There's a part of me that looks forward to being old and lonely and feeling comfortable writing whatever I want about practically anyone because most of them probably aren't in my life anymore... is that bad?) Also, this book has both gems and crap, which is probably why he gets so many mixed reactions, and explains why he gets talked about so much. It's a matter of which ones you consider gems and which ones you consider crap. I think it's a bit much when people think every single poem is amazing and genius and incredibly insightful and truthful. Some of his poems really are just the result of a lonely, drunk old man bitching, perhaps with a tiny sprinkle of "I'm bitter and you should love me because I'm better than everyone else." The reason he's interesting is because he likes to blend the two - gems and crap - and often treats them as one in the same, and each reader has a different perception of which is which. The reason I still love him besides the many moments he annoys the crap out of me is because when he doesn't annoy me, there are plenty of other moments where I swear he could have been reading my mind and writing from my own heart.
I'll further explain my feelings towards this book with the texts exchanged between me and a friend (starting with me):
- "It's funny, the reason I can't just sit through a bukowski book and finish it at once is because he actually kinda starts to annoy me after a while... ha"
- "I can see that. But how so?"
- "It's too hard to explain in a text or even a few sentences, we'll just have to look at the book together sometime so I can explain. I still love him but if me and him were friends, we'd probably fight all the time just like he did with his girlfriends, except without being his girlfriend."
But you see, the point here really is, he obviously gets people talking about him, so I guess he wins. But I think I know a few reasons why. He is "brutally honest" most of the time, which most people are afraid of. He's not afraid of talking shit about anyone, including himself, and he'll tell stories of just about anyone he's had in his life. I think this is what makes readers feel like they're really in on something special, or feel some kind of connection with him. People are more easily drawn to other people who open themselves up and share things with you, and sometimes Bukowski's poems are more like a diary. Much of this book is a diary of the past. (There's a part of me that looks forward to being old and lonely and feeling comfortable writing whatever I want about practically anyone because most of them probably aren't in my life anymore... is that bad?) Also, this book has both gems and crap, which is probably why he gets so many mixed reactions, and explains why he gets talked about so much. It's a matter of which ones you consider gems and which ones you consider crap. I think it's a bit much when people think every single poem is amazing and genius and incredibly insightful and truthful. Some of his poems really are just the result of a lonely, drunk old man bitching, perhaps with a tiny sprinkle of "I'm bitter and you should love me because I'm better than everyone else." The reason he's interesting is because he likes to blend the two - gems and crap - and often treats them as one in the same, and each reader has a different perception of which is which. The reason I still love him besides the many moments he annoys the crap out of me is because when he doesn't annoy me, there are plenty of other moments where I swear he could have been reading my mind and writing from my own heart.
November 13, 2012
--beasts bounding through time--
Van Gogh writing his brother for paints
Hemingway testing his shotgun
Celine going broke as a doctor of medicine
the impossibility of being human
Villon expelled from Paris for being a thief
Faulkner drunk in the gutters of his town
the impossibility of being human
Burroughs killing his wife with a gun
Mailer stabbing his
the impossibility of being human
Maupassant going mad in a rowboat
Dostoevsky lined up against a wall to be shot
Crane off the back of a boat into the propeller
the impossibility
Sylvia with her head in the oven like a baked potato
Harry Crosby leaping into that Black Sun
Lorca murdered in the road by the Spanish troops
the impossibility
Artaud sitting on a madhouse bench
Chatterton drinking rat poison
Shakespeare a plagiarist
Beethoven with a horn stuck into his head against deafness
the impossibility the impossibility
Nietzsche gone totally mad
the impossibility of being human
all too human
this breathing
in and out
out and in
these punks
these cowards
these champions
these mad dogs of glory
moving this little bit of light toward
us
impossibly.
Van Gogh writing his brother for paints
Hemingway testing his shotgun
Celine going broke as a doctor of medicine
the impossibility of being human
Villon expelled from Paris for being a thief
Faulkner drunk in the gutters of his town
the impossibility of being human
Burroughs killing his wife with a gun
Mailer stabbing his
the impossibility of being human
Maupassant going mad in a rowboat
Dostoevsky lined up against a wall to be shot
Crane off the back of a boat into the propeller
the impossibility
Sylvia with her head in the oven like a baked potato
Harry Crosby leaping into that Black Sun
Lorca murdered in the road by the Spanish troops
the impossibility
Artaud sitting on a madhouse bench
Chatterton drinking rat poison
Shakespeare a plagiarist
Beethoven with a horn stuck into his head against deafness
the impossibility the impossibility
Nietzsche gone totally mad
the impossibility of being human
all too human
this breathing
in and out
out and in
these punks
these cowards
these champions
these mad dogs of glory
moving this little bit of light toward
us
impossibly.
to-buy
October 2, 2017“Some people never go crazy
What truly horrible lives they must lead
Boring damned people
All over the earth
propagating more boring damned people
What a horror show
The earth swarmed with them”
“Some lose all mind and become soul, insane.
some lose all soul and become mind, intellectual.
some lose both and become accepted”
I added this book to my reading list because of the Beautiful Creatures "Lena & Ethan reading list".
What truly horrible lives they must lead
Boring damned people
All over the earth
propagating more boring damned people
What a horror show
The earth swarmed with them”
“Some lose all mind and become soul, insane.
some lose all soul and become mind, intellectual.
some lose both and become accepted”
I added this book to my reading list because of the Beautiful Creatures "Lena & Ethan reading list".
June 11, 2011
I think there is blood on my Bukowski book. Of course, the book is not mine. It is an ILL copy but I'm pretty sure the dried stains on the bottom right corners is blood. I wonder where the book has been. I've tried to not touch the area.
This is another excellent collection. Except for a few poems here and there that I did not react to, every one was memorable and true. I dread the day I run out of new-to-me Bukowski poetry.
Many of the writer's topics were the same, whores and other poets to name two, though the poems about other poets did not feel quite so antagonistic as in the last collection I read. I think Bukowski was feeling his own worth a bit more here. He sounded comfortable with himself and his life choices in many of the poems.
He also often mentioned his cats. I like knowing he was a cat person.
Road Rage was another noticable topic, along with the Bomb, impending death, drinking with friends, drinking alone, life in L.A., digs at society and where society was headed (he was not off the mark in my opinion), and refections of once being a starving artist. As the latest published collection I have so far read, there was a great deal more reflection going on and I liked it. As the title suggestions, much of the writing felt lonely. But this was not always a bad lonliness. It is the lonliness of a person who conflicts with the world, who chooses to not change, who chooses to remain lonely.
I am able to relate to Bukowski more often than I like to admit, though I guess I am not alone in this fact, considering his success.
As usual, I ended with a book full of bits of paper sticking out, poems to not forget, poems more than worth mentioning.
When, at the end of how is your heart, Bukowski wrote "what matters most is how well you walk through the fire", I felt it, more than when I have heard similar and more eloquent statements of the same. When I read 3 a.m. games, I really wanted a cigarette. I enjoyed the longer story type poems, such as a tragic meeting, I meet the famous poet, and whorehouse, all of which I found rather funny for different reasons. putrefaction is another I simply want to mention because it has stuck with me.
invasion was my favorite. This is a first, as I have never been able to narrow the field so much, let alone to one. I would include the poem here but sadly it is too long and I think it is best left as a wonderful surprise for those who end up reading this collection.
This is another excellent collection. Except for a few poems here and there that I did not react to, every one was memorable and true. I dread the day I run out of new-to-me Bukowski poetry.
Many of the writer's topics were the same, whores and other poets to name two, though the poems about other poets did not feel quite so antagonistic as in the last collection I read. I think Bukowski was feeling his own worth a bit more here. He sounded comfortable with himself and his life choices in many of the poems.
He also often mentioned his cats. I like knowing he was a cat person.
Road Rage was another noticable topic, along with the Bomb, impending death, drinking with friends, drinking alone, life in L.A., digs at society and where society was headed (he was not off the mark in my opinion), and refections of once being a starving artist. As the latest published collection I have so far read, there was a great deal more reflection going on and I liked it. As the title suggestions, much of the writing felt lonely. But this was not always a bad lonliness. It is the lonliness of a person who conflicts with the world, who chooses to not change, who chooses to remain lonely.
I am able to relate to Bukowski more often than I like to admit, though I guess I am not alone in this fact, considering his success.
As usual, I ended with a book full of bits of paper sticking out, poems to not forget, poems more than worth mentioning.
When, at the end of how is your heart, Bukowski wrote "what matters most is how well you walk through the fire", I felt it, more than when I have heard similar and more eloquent statements of the same. When I read 3 a.m. games, I really wanted a cigarette. I enjoyed the longer story type poems, such as a tragic meeting, I meet the famous poet, and whorehouse, all of which I found rather funny for different reasons. putrefaction is another I simply want to mention because it has stuck with me.
invasion was my favorite. This is a first, as I have never been able to narrow the field so much, let alone to one. I would include the poem here but sadly it is too long and I think it is best left as a wonderful surprise for those who end up reading this collection.
February 20, 2018
Imagine an old man (+45) with his four cats, living in a shabby one-room apartment with occasional girlfriends who come and go—that man is Charles Bukowski, otherwise known as the poet of the lowlifes.
Most poems are about drinking, getting wasted, writing, loneliness, failure, street fights, occasional hookups and poor living. Few poems get into the poet's childhood, especially his strained relationship with his father.
The style reflects such motifs. It's conversational and sometimes even vulgar—a smack in the face of anyone who thinks that poetry must be literary and refined. It's an upshot from modernism it seems to me.
I like Charles. He's a wild man.
Recommended.
Most poems are about drinking, getting wasted, writing, loneliness, failure, street fights, occasional hookups and poor living. Few poems get into the poet's childhood, especially his strained relationship with his father.
The style reflects such motifs. It's conversational and sometimes even vulgar—a smack in the face of anyone who thinks that poetry must be literary and refined. It's an upshot from modernism it seems to me.
I like Charles. He's a wild man.
Recommended.
August 31, 2016
“there is a place in the heart that
will never be filled
a space
and even during the
best moments
and
the greatest times
we will know it
we will know it
more than
ever
there is a place in the heart that
will never be filled
and
we will wait
and
wait
in that space.”
will never be filled
a space
and even during the
best moments
and
the greatest times
we will know it
we will know it
more than
ever
there is a place in the heart that
will never be filled
and
we will wait
and
wait
in that space.”
May 30, 2015
Bukowski is a genious. enough said. *.* ♥
January 9, 2014
The question I put to every poem - do I believe your truth, do I enjoy your lies?
If both answers are a 'no' I'll consider them a stone cold sober waste of time.
But let's move on to 'alkies'. I always had a sneaking suspicion that despite the obvious and secret trials and tribulations of being an alcoholic, (high functioning or otherwise) alcoholics are out there having so much more fun than I and additionally gaining great material and inspiration for that book, poem,
song, film project.
That's one of a myriad of excuses as to why I'm not being more creative - I'm simply not drunk enough. For any goodreaders and alcoholics who elect to be offended, note my joking tone.
According to some of the poems here 'alkies' are akin to sullen teenagers dropping 'whatever' bombs before that slam of the door.
There's a lot of too-cool-for-school shoulder shrugging, grunting, angst, road rage altercations and 'so it goes' kind of stuff that bores me a little - almond slivers of bravado going down sour.
A few poems snapped me out of the inertia: '1813-1883', 'beasts bounding...' 'hot', '...crippled saints' 'how is your heart?' 'it's ours'.
Back to truth and lies, the poetry is believable and real, but I wasn't inspired or entertained.
If both answers are a 'no' I'll consider them a stone cold sober waste of time.
But let's move on to 'alkies'. I always had a sneaking suspicion that despite the obvious and secret trials and tribulations of being an alcoholic, (high functioning or otherwise) alcoholics are out there having so much more fun than I and additionally gaining great material and inspiration for that book, poem,
song, film project.
That's one of a myriad of excuses as to why I'm not being more creative - I'm simply not drunk enough. For any goodreaders and alcoholics who elect to be offended, note my joking tone.
According to some of the poems here 'alkies' are akin to sullen teenagers dropping 'whatever' bombs before that slam of the door.
There's a lot of too-cool-for-school shoulder shrugging, grunting, angst, road rage altercations and 'so it goes' kind of stuff that bores me a little - almond slivers of bravado going down sour.
A few poems snapped me out of the inertia: '1813-1883', 'beasts bounding...' 'hot', '...crippled saints' 'how is your heart?' 'it's ours'.
Back to truth and lies, the poetry is believable and real, but I wasn't inspired or entertained.
February 27, 2017
Bukowski, you miserable bastard, I found you on a shelf in a thrift shop. You would have found that appropriate, if it weren't for the fact that you were nestled beside a volume of Hemingway, whom you professed to scorn but I think you really envied his easy success, the profits that eluded you for so many years. Hemingway stayed on the shelf, but you came home with me so I could have a look to see what makes you tick.
At the time you penned most of the poems in this book you were about my age, and we are so alike in temperament that I found myself disliking you. Don't take it personally, but there can only be one misanthrope at a time in the room. I pay the mortgage, so you have to go. Leave the book.
Your poems at this stage lack the fire of youth, I'm seeing resignation and acceptance here. Some passages seem to convey a sense of dread:
"as long as there are
human beings about
there is never going to be
any peace
for any individual
upon this earth(
or anywhere else
they might escape to).
all you can do
is maybe grab
ten lucky minutes
here
or maybe an hour
there.
something
is working toward you
right now, and
I mean you
and nobody but
you. (P196)
I gotta admit, Charlie, that one gave me a little chill. But most of all, and very puzzling to me, is that your work seems to express a distaste for your fellow man paradoxically matched with a sense of loneliness. A case in point from Page 235:
escape
the best part was
pulling down the
shades
stuffing the doorbell
with rags
putting the phone
in the
refrigerator
and going to bed
for 3 or 4
days.
and the next best
part
was
nobody ever
missed
me.
I gotta say, Charles, that I usually don't finish a book of poetry so quickly. And I seldom like so much of what I've read. Your book will never see another thrift store while I'm alive.
At the time you penned most of the poems in this book you were about my age, and we are so alike in temperament that I found myself disliking you. Don't take it personally, but there can only be one misanthrope at a time in the room. I pay the mortgage, so you have to go. Leave the book.
Your poems at this stage lack the fire of youth, I'm seeing resignation and acceptance here. Some passages seem to convey a sense of dread:
"as long as there are
human beings about
there is never going to be
any peace
for any individual
upon this earth(
or anywhere else
they might escape to).
all you can do
is maybe grab
ten lucky minutes
here
or maybe an hour
there.
something
is working toward you
right now, and
I mean you
and nobody but
you. (P196)
I gotta admit, Charlie, that one gave me a little chill. But most of all, and very puzzling to me, is that your work seems to express a distaste for your fellow man paradoxically matched with a sense of loneliness. A case in point from Page 235:
escape
the best part was
pulling down the
shades
stuffing the doorbell
with rags
putting the phone
in the
refrigerator
and going to bed
for 3 or 4
days.
and the next best
part
was
nobody ever
missed
me.
I gotta say, Charles, that I usually don't finish a book of poetry so quickly. And I seldom like so much of what I've read. Your book will never see another thrift store while I'm alive.
November 12, 2021
Bukowski serves up prose poetry. What is drawn is not pretty. To some, the sex, poverty and dissolute behavior described may be viewed as crude. This does not bother me in the least. I like the honesty, the reality revealed. He has the ability to get underneath the surface, to reveal the core of human existence for the down and out.
The lines and the scenes are humorous if one comprehends the implied irony.
The writing consists of short little snippets--thoughts, observations and experiences. Those in the latter half have a predominantly autobiographical content. I liked these better than the first. They are jumbled chronologically. Nevertheless, the flow of the pieces, one after the other, works! Bukowski plays with words and ideas--he is an artist with words.
Every snippet provides food for thought. Each one can be listened to multiple times. With each reading one becomes aware of different possible interpretations.
Bukowski lists things he does not like--Tolstoy and Melville do not appeal to him. Me too! Me too! Fourth of July celebrations, birthday parties are on his list. I agree on just about everything. Things that most others like, he and I don't. Although B's and my life are very different, I feel a kinship with him. I like that he does not shy from revealing the dirt of life.
Claire Natale reads the audiobook very well. Her tone is laid back, subdued and is easy to follow. Her reading fits the lines--the two work well together. Four stars.
**********************
*Ham on Rye 4 stars
*You Get So Alone at Times That it Just Makes Sense 4 stars
*Post Office TBR
The lines and the scenes are humorous if one comprehends the implied irony.
The writing consists of short little snippets--thoughts, observations and experiences. Those in the latter half have a predominantly autobiographical content. I liked these better than the first. They are jumbled chronologically. Nevertheless, the flow of the pieces, one after the other, works! Bukowski plays with words and ideas--he is an artist with words.
Every snippet provides food for thought. Each one can be listened to multiple times. With each reading one becomes aware of different possible interpretations.
Bukowski lists things he does not like--Tolstoy and Melville do not appeal to him. Me too! Me too! Fourth of July celebrations, birthday parties are on his list. I agree on just about everything. Things that most others like, he and I don't. Although B's and my life are very different, I feel a kinship with him. I like that he does not shy from revealing the dirt of life.
Claire Natale reads the audiobook very well. Her tone is laid back, subdued and is easy to follow. Her reading fits the lines--the two work well together. Four stars.
**********************
*Ham on Rye 4 stars
*You Get So Alone at Times That it Just Makes Sense 4 stars
*Post Office TBR
February 20, 2017
Charles Bukowski is crazy, fortunately, I love crazy people.
Hahaha examines Cats. Personally, after reading this book, I find this man to be absolutely nuts. I could picture myself becoming friends with him, easily, because let’s face it, I am as crazy as they come.
Stranger: Can you describe your friend Melody to me?
My Friends: Melody? That biatch is crazy with a capital K.
Me: Yes. Yes I am.
I will now review this piece how Bukowski would:
I wonder
between the two
of us
Bukowski and I
who is the
craziest
him for this book
or me
for calling
it a
masterpiece.
Either way
there's something
wrong with us
and so
is this
line.
See where I’m going with this? The difference between Bukowski and I though, is that, while he is a mad genius, I am... read more here
Hahaha examines Cats. Personally, after reading this book, I find this man to be absolutely nuts. I could picture myself becoming friends with him, easily, because let’s face it, I am as crazy as they come.
Stranger: Can you describe your friend Melody to me?
My Friends: Melody? That biatch is crazy with a capital K.
Me: Yes. Yes I am.
I will now review this piece how Bukowski would:
I wonder
between the two
of us
Bukowski and I
who is the
craziest
him for this book
or me
for calling
it a
masterpiece.
Either way
there's something
wrong with us
and so
is this
line.
See where I’m going with this? The difference between Bukowski and I though, is that, while he is a mad genius, I am... read more here
July 1, 2020
there is a place in the heart
that will never be filled
and
we will wait
and
wait
in that
space.
that will never be filled
and
we will wait
and
wait
in that
space.
December 18, 2016
I love the fact that Bukowski, even after winning fame, stayed so true to himself, and remained living where he always did: in the underbelly of society, a place few of us really know. It makes everything he writes so much more real; a perspective so many of us don't ever experience.
But for all that, his poetry still applies to so many of us, no matter where we live, or how much money we make. His wry observations on the modern world always ring true, making sure we always remember we all put our pants on one leg at a time.
But for all that, his poetry still applies to so many of us, no matter where we live, or how much money we make. His wry observations on the modern world always ring true, making sure we always remember we all put our pants on one leg at a time.
March 2, 2017
Some of this was very good (and some excellent, even), but I mostly hated it. Now at least I know to give extreme side-eye to dudes who say Bukowski is their favorite poet/writer.
February 25, 2010
Lots of people think that Bukowski's later work is less immediate and raw and powerful - after he found some commercial success (mainly in Europe) - than his earlier work. They ask "why don't you keep writing about drinking and fighting in alleys and sleeping with prostitutes?". To them, it felt more "real".
But I like the later stuff. It moves with more confidence and less self-awareness. I always got the sense that too many of his earlier experiences were experienced with exactly the self-satisfied knowledge that "at least it will make for a good poem". The later stuff feels more immediate, to me, simply because it is less reflexively self-aware. Instead, I find the later poems more intentional, more reflexive, and less formulaic. Though understanding it well requires a reading of the earlier, meaner work - this is my favorite of the Bukowski poetry collections I've read so far.
But I like the later stuff. It moves with more confidence and less self-awareness. I always got the sense that too many of his earlier experiences were experienced with exactly the self-satisfied knowledge that "at least it will make for a good poem". The later stuff feels more immediate, to me, simply because it is less reflexively self-aware. Instead, I find the later poems more intentional, more reflexive, and less formulaic. Though understanding it well requires a reading of the earlier, meaner work - this is my favorite of the Bukowski poetry collections I've read so far.
February 28, 2020
"You get so alone at times that it just makes sense" is another raw collection of poems by Uncle Bukowski. The usual material about prostitutes, booze and fights couldn't miss it, but the writer goes further than that. This book is also a recollection of the past, where he expresses the occasional hookups, poor living, writing and failure in a wry and sincere tone. Loneliness is the bold word in this book title, but ironically, the author is never alone during his life. He has so much to tell, but that's one of the lessons he teaches us: "we only have ourselves to go on, and it’s
enough…" Bukowski stays true to his lifestyle. Despite his literary success, he demonstrates values of honesty and integrity which he so well delivers in his poems. His texts are generally not graceful and flowery, just like life.
"there is a place in the heart that
will never be filled
a space
and even during the
best moments
and
the greatest
times
we will know it
we will know it
more than
ever
there is a place in the heart that
will never be filled
and
we will wait
and
wait
in that
space."
What matters most is how well you walk through the fire
enough…" Bukowski stays true to his lifestyle. Despite his literary success, he demonstrates values of honesty and integrity which he so well delivers in his poems. His texts are generally not graceful and flowery, just like life.
"there is a place in the heart that
will never be filled
a space
and even during the
best moments
and
the greatest
times
we will know it
we will know it
more than
ever
there is a place in the heart that
will never be filled
and
we will wait
and
wait
in that
space."
What matters most is how well you walk through the fire
December 7, 2021
I have liked Bukowski's poetry since I was an emotional rollercoaster of a teenager and I still like it as a somewhat stable(?)and a fairly young adult in my 20s. Yes, his poetry contains a lot of curse words, a lot of enjambment, simplified vocabulary, and an array of "gruesome" acts like sex, drinking, gambling. The characters that are most present in his work are ones of the lower class: the drunks, prostitutes, gamblers, unemployed men, and women; essentially ones that "didn't win" at life. Even though at first glance these people seem lonely and sad, they all carry that ounce of compassion that makes humanity what we are.
Bukowski is not saying that every "Succesful" person is cold, ruthless, and hypocritical nor is he saying that every drunk has a beautiful soul and a sharp wit, he is acknowledging the existence of the bad in what is presented as good and the good in what society presents as bad.
darkness falls upon Humanity
and faces become terrible
things
that wanted more than there
was.
all our days are marked with
unexpected
affronts - some
disastrous, others
less so
but the process is
wearing and
continuous.
attrition rules.
most give
way
leaving
empty spaces
where people should
be.
and now
as we ready to self-destruct
there is very little left to
kill
which makes the tragedy
less and more
much much
more.”
The real enemy for Bukowski is the collective that represses the individual. It's fitting inside boxes of modern society, into the roles set by something inhuman.
Bukowski is almost like a disappointed idealist, his values are ones of good (compassion, kindness, humanism) but life offers rare chances of reciprocation and leads his characters into a downward spiral of developing bad habits (gambling, drinking, drug abuse) to cope with their dissatisfaction with life. There are many poems that he wrote where he expresses that the moments of happiness and enjoyment are ones of genuine connection with other people and art.
That’s where the role of art comes along, it’s this ability of one man to express himself with no binds, and for another to connect with his work long after the creator is gone. As art is made by the artist but is now left alone, standing for itself, being even bigger than its maker. Art has a dual power of healing, giving the creator freedom and the observer of art pleasure or connection, or that feeling of being seen, of being expressed in an adequate way. And maybe a percentage of humans who are touched by art will make their own art and the cycle carries on.
The poetry of Bukowski makes you ask the question, why is this moment in particular made into a poem? Why is this man the hero of the poem, or its antihero? What does he pay attention to these things and not the other?
And all of this is wrapped in simple, colloquial language which can reach the wide masses and they can understand it if they do spend a moment or two reflecting on each poem.
Final thoughts: Bukowski writes with a lot of heart, showcasing both the downs and the rare ups of human existence, this collection in particular has some of the best aspects of his writing and serves as a good introduction to his poems.
------------------------------------------------------
Still one of my favorite poetry collections; review to come.
Bukowski is not saying that every "Succesful" person is cold, ruthless, and hypocritical nor is he saying that every drunk has a beautiful soul and a sharp wit, he is acknowledging the existence of the bad in what is presented as good and the good in what society presents as bad.
Darkness
darkness falls upon Humanity
and faces become terrible
things
that wanted more than there
was.
all our days are marked with
unexpected
affronts - some
disastrous, others
less so
but the process is
wearing and
continuous.
attrition rules.
most give
way
leaving
empty spaces
where people should
be.
and now
as we ready to self-destruct
there is very little left to
kill
which makes the tragedy
less and more
much much
more.”
The real enemy for Bukowski is the collective that represses the individual. It's fitting inside boxes of modern society, into the roles set by something inhuman.
Bukowski is almost like a disappointed idealist, his values are ones of good (compassion, kindness, humanism) but life offers rare chances of reciprocation and leads his characters into a downward spiral of developing bad habits (gambling, drinking, drug abuse) to cope with their dissatisfaction with life. There are many poems that he wrote where he expresses that the moments of happiness and enjoyment are ones of genuine connection with other people and art.
Miracle
I have just listened to this
symphony which Mozart dashed off
in one day
and it had enough wild and crazy
joy to last
forever,
whatever forever
is
Mozart came as close as
possible to
that.
That’s where the role of art comes along, it’s this ability of one man to express himself with no binds, and for another to connect with his work long after the creator is gone. As art is made by the artist but is now left alone, standing for itself, being even bigger than its maker. Art has a dual power of healing, giving the creator freedom and the observer of art pleasure or connection, or that feeling of being seen, of being expressed in an adequate way. And maybe a percentage of humans who are touched by art will make their own art and the cycle carries on.
The poetry of Bukowski makes you ask the question, why is this moment in particular made into a poem? Why is this man the hero of the poem, or its antihero? What does he pay attention to these things and not the other?
And all of this is wrapped in simple, colloquial language which can reach the wide masses and they can understand it if they do spend a moment or two reflecting on each poem.
Final thoughts: Bukowski writes with a lot of heart, showcasing both the downs and the rare ups of human existence, this collection in particular has some of the best aspects of his writing and serves as a good introduction to his poems.
------------------------------------------------------
Still one of my favorite poetry collections; review to come.
November 6, 2018
Wow, I’m really sitting here asking myself why I bought and actually finished that book. I’ve often cone across lines from Bukowski’s works which I thought sounded beautiful, that I could relate to. I like poetry and I the title of this collection of poems seemed very intriguing.
What saddens me most is that THERE ARE beautiful lines, beautiful poems & moments on this collection but it’s overshadowed by a sexist atmosphere and toxic masculinity. Bukowski wrote whole damn poems in which he first wrote about how he’d been acting in a misogynistic way, that writes about being called out for it, described as a sexist, says he’s not and even is proud of the whole ordeal.
It makes me want to vomit.
Actually, it’s his whole considering himself as far superior than others, not just women, but also every other writer ever.
Yet, after reading this collection, to me he was nothing but an old, resentful, misogynistic man, a gambling drunkard who sure had a gift with words but at the same time he was a coward, afraid to show real emotion, a real connection with other human beings or the world in general.
What saddens me most is that THERE ARE beautiful lines, beautiful poems & moments on this collection but it’s overshadowed by a sexist atmosphere and toxic masculinity. Bukowski wrote whole damn poems in which he first wrote about how he’d been acting in a misogynistic way, that writes about being called out for it, described as a sexist, says he’s not and even is proud of the whole ordeal.
It makes me want to vomit.
Actually, it’s his whole considering himself as far superior than others, not just women, but also every other writer ever.
Yet, after reading this collection, to me he was nothing but an old, resentful, misogynistic man, a gambling drunkard who sure had a gift with words but at the same time he was a coward, afraid to show real emotion, a real connection with other human beings or the world in general.
July 19, 2007
This is one of my favorite collections of poetry. Charles Bukowski led a pretty rough life (he was an unapologetic, womanizing, violent drunk) which is reflected in his work. Some of his pieces are coarse, lewd, and downright graphic. But amongst all of the chaos and drunkeness he will write something beautiful and poignant, which seems even more so in contrast to then violent and lacivious poems around it. And that's kind of what poetry is, isn't it? Finding something beautiful in the everyday. For whatever reason, this does it for me.
June 6, 2017
While I wasn't a fan of everything in this book, poems like "no help for that" and "it's ours" redeem it 100%
May 22, 2014
I would never want Bukowski for a friend.
He's the friend that gets slobbering drunk at the party.
The friend who rails and rails for hours about some nonsense that nobody wants to listen to.
He's the one who ruins the carpet that's been in the family for generations- the one that your great-great grandmother wove with her bare hands-
and he doesn't apologize for it.
He's never the friend you look to for advice,
or the friend that you would ever share a drink with when you were in a happy mood,
but he's the friend that you go to when you want to let yourself wallow a little,
when you're not against feeling a little bit of self-pity,
when an emotional catharsis is the only thing that can save you.
Bukowski is truly vulgar and cynical. I loved this book.
Whatever it was, it was real.
"these punks
these cowards
these champions
these mad dogs of glory"
he was indeed a beast pounding through time.
and for a moment his poetry illuminated that space in the heart that can never be filled.
He's the friend that gets slobbering drunk at the party.
The friend who rails and rails for hours about some nonsense that nobody wants to listen to.
He's the one who ruins the carpet that's been in the family for generations- the one that your great-great grandmother wove with her bare hands-
and he doesn't apologize for it.
He's never the friend you look to for advice,
or the friend that you would ever share a drink with when you were in a happy mood,
but he's the friend that you go to when you want to let yourself wallow a little,
when you're not against feeling a little bit of self-pity,
when an emotional catharsis is the only thing that can save you.
Bukowski is truly vulgar and cynical. I loved this book.
Whatever it was, it was real.
"these punks
these cowards
these champions
these mad dogs of glory"
he was indeed a beast pounding through time.
and for a moment his poetry illuminated that space in the heart that can never be filled.
June 5, 2020
now
something so sad
has hold of us
that
the breath
leaves
and we can't even
cry.
***
my death will at most seem
an
afterthought.
***
the price of creation
is never
too high.
the price of living
with other people
always
is.
***
as long as there are
human beings about
there is never going to be
any peace
for any individual
upon this earth (or
anywhere else
they might escape to).
all you can do
is maybe grab
ten lucky minutes
here
or maybe an hour
there.
something
is working toward you
right now, and
I mean you
and nobody but
you.
***
when we were kids
laying around the lawn
on our
bellies
we talked about
how
we'd like to
die
and
we all
agreed on the
same
thing:
we'd all
like to die
fucking
...
and now
that
we are hardly
kids
any longer
we think
about
how
not to
die
and
although
we're
ready
most of
us
would
prefer to
do it
alone
under the
sheets
now
that
most of
us
have fucked
our lives
away.
something so sad
has hold of us
that
the breath
leaves
and we can't even
cry.
***
my death will at most seem
an
afterthought.
***
the price of creation
is never
too high.
the price of living
with other people
always
is.
***
as long as there are
human beings about
there is never going to be
any peace
for any individual
upon this earth (or
anywhere else
they might escape to).
all you can do
is maybe grab
ten lucky minutes
here
or maybe an hour
there.
something
is working toward you
right now, and
I mean you
and nobody but
you.
***
when we were kids
laying around the lawn
on our
bellies
we talked about
how
we'd like to
die
and
we all
agreed on the
same
thing:
we'd all
like to die
fucking
...
and now
that
we are hardly
kids
any longer
we think
about
how
not to
die
and
although
we're
ready
most of
us
would
prefer to
do it
alone
under the
sheets
now
that
most of
us
have fucked
our lives
away.
September 17, 2015
Wow such a raw collection of hard masculine poetry that captures the coarseness one must wrap themselves in to be considered a real man with the soft interior of a soul seeing out from behind his lines.
Wow look at how authentic this poetry is and what a struggle it is to live a life as a true artist.
I'm thoroughly disappointed.
Wow look at how authentic this poetry is and what a struggle it is to live a life as a true artist.
I'm thoroughly disappointed.
May 28, 2016
Bukowski is not my cup of tea. Mostly because I prefer my cup of tea to not be a sexist and vulgar alcoholic. - Whilst reading this book I dogeared the poems I really liked and there are only 7 or 8 in this whole collection, with the majority found towards the very end of the book.
The most profound and beautiful verse that made this whole book worth reading, is the following.
"what matters most is
how well you
walk through the
fire."
It's probably the only thing Mr. Bukowski and I would wholeheartedly agree on.
Also, I really liked the very last poem so here it is for ya.
it's ours
there is always that space there
just before they get to us
that space
that fine relaxer
the breather
while say
flopping on a bed
thinking fo nothing
or say
pouring a glass of water from the
spigot
while entranced by
nothing
that
gentle pure
space
it's worth
centuries of existence
say
just to scratch your neck
while looking out the window at
a bare branch
that space
there
before they get to us
ensures
that
when they do
they won't
get it all
ever.
The most profound and beautiful verse that made this whole book worth reading, is the following.
"what matters most is
how well you
walk through the
fire."
It's probably the only thing Mr. Bukowski and I would wholeheartedly agree on.
Also, I really liked the very last poem so here it is for ya.
it's ours
there is always that space there
just before they get to us
that space
that fine relaxer
the breather
while say
flopping on a bed
thinking fo nothing
or say
pouring a glass of water from the
spigot
while entranced by
nothing
that
gentle pure
space
it's worth
centuries of existence
say
just to scratch your neck
while looking out the window at
a bare branch
that space
there
before they get to us
ensures
that
when they do
they won't
get it all
ever.
July 7, 2020
The book that redefined poetry for me. Spent many night getting pissed by myself, reading this.
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