I decided I wanted to post a poem by Charles Bukowski a few hours ago. It's taken me awhile to find the one I wanted.
The other night Blue Kid and his friend, along with their two girlfriends, were sitting in the living room. I walked into the kitchen and overheard BK's friend say, "Well, if I'm going to read any poet, it should be him."
I poked my head around the corner and said, "Didn't mean to eavesdrop, but what poet do you want to read, Steve?"
"Charles Bukowski."
"Ah, he's good, I think. Dark, crass. Sometimes too crass for me. But, there's beauty too. I read a ton of his poems over the last couple of years." I grabbed "sifting through the madness for the Word, the line, the way" off the bookshelf and handed it to him.
"I bought this a few weeks ago but I haven't read any of it yet."
"I don't know this one. I bought, um, "Burning in Water...um...."
"Drowning in Flame."
"Yeah, Drowning in Flame. I haven't read mine yet either. Bought it on Monday. Some people say you should go to the library. And you should. I know why they say that. But, I like to own my books. I like them to be mine." He said, handing my book back to me.
"I know what you mean. I'm the same way. Burning in Water, Drowning in Flame. That's a great phrase."
"Yeah, I want to read Bukowski and, uh, Kurt Vonnegut. I also bought Slaughterhouse Five."
"That's a good one to own. And you'll never go wrong with Vonnegut. He was the coolest guy ever. You're gonna love him."
I took my book up to my office and read for an hour and a half. Didn't dog-ear any pages, so a couple of hours ago I wasn't sure where to find the poem I wanted to post that struck me the other night. But, I was almost sure it was towards the end of the book. So, I started at the back, page 365.
As I read backwards through the book this time, I re-read the ones I had liked and skipped others that I had skipped before. The ones that are too dark, too crass. The ones about racetracks, and whores with yellow teeth, drunk, their stockings puddled around their ankles.
And this time I dog-eared a few. Like this one, page 296.
words for you
red dogs in green hell, what is this
divided thing I call
myself?
what message is this I'm offering
here?
it's so easy to slide into
poetic pretension.
almost all art is shot through with
poetic
pretension:
painting
sculpting
the stage
music
what is this foolish
strutting and posturing
we do?
why do we embroider everything we say
with special emphasis
when all we really need to do
is simply say what
needs to be said?
of course
the fact is
that there is very little that needs
to be said.
so we dress up our
little artful musings
and clamor for attention
so that we may appear to be
a bit more
important
or even more
truthful
than the others.
what is this I'm writing
here?
what is this you're reading
here?
is it no worse than the rest?
probably even a little bit
better?
And this one, page 244.
excuses
once again
I hear of somebody who is going to
settle down and
do their work,
painting or writing or whatever,
as soon as they get a better light
installed,
or as soon as they move to a new
city,
or as soon as they come back from the trip they
have been planning,
or as soon as...
it's simple: they just don't want
to do it,
or they can't do it,
otherwise they'd feel a burning
itch from hell
they could not ignore
and "soon"
would turn quickly into
"now."
Or this one, page 239.
she was really mad
I love you, she said
and spit in a bowl of
jello
put it in the
refrigerator
and said,
you can eat that later
for dinner!
then she was gone
like a whirlwind
out the door
in a rush of angry
skirt.
I love the title of that one. So simple, boy-like. And to be a whirlwind out the door like a rush of angry skirt is more vibrant and life-affirming than to be a yellow-toothed drunken whore wearing baggy hose.
But, that's just me.
I didn't read the one entitled "work-fuck problems."
I started to read "you never liked me" but had a hard time getting past the second line.
I let Reena give you a blow job
even though she was my wife
Bukowski's a good storyteller, so there was probably a good, or least interesting reason behind that decision of his. I skimmed the rest.
where you tried to rape Robert's widow...
you tried to drown him afterwards...
you wanted to suicide...
I was the one who talked him out of killing you...
I just wasn't in the mood for that kind of story tonight. Maybe I'll go back to it someday. Or maybe not.
I flipped through 362 pages and re-read, flipped and skipped until I found the poem I had wanted to post.
It was the first poem in the book.
My memory ain't what it used to be. Or maybe it never was what I imagine it once was. Maybe I've always gone backwards, starting at the end of things to find what meant something to me.
so you want to be a writer?
if it doesn't come bursting out of you
in spite of everything,
don't do it.
unless it comes unasked out of your
heart and your mind and your mouth
and your gut,
don't do it.
if you have to sit for hours
staring at your computer screen
or hunched over your
typewriter
searching for words,
don't do it.
if you're doing it for money or
fame,
don't do it.
if you're doing it because you want
women in your bed,
don't do it.
if you have to sit there and
rewrite it again and again,
don't do it.
if it's hard work just thinking about doing it,
don't do it.
if you're trying to write like somebody
else,
forget about it.
if you have to wait for it to roar out of
you,
then wait patiently,
if it never does roar out of you,
do something else.
if you first have to read it to your wife
or your girlfriend or your boyfriend
or your parents or to anybody at all,
you're not ready.
don't be like so many writers,
don't be like so many thousands of
people who call themselves writers,
don't be dull and boring and
pretentious, don't be consumed with self-
love.
the libraries of the world have
yawned themselves to
sleep
over your kind.
don't add to that.
don't do it.
unless it comes out of
your soul like a rocket,
unless being still would
drive you to madness or
suicide or murder,
don't do it.
unless the sun inside you is
burning your gut,
don't do it.
when it is truly time,
and if you have been chosen,
it will do it by
itself and it will keep on doing it
until you die or it dies in
you.
there is no other way.
and there never was.
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