More Charles Bukowski

A few years ago, there was a night where I felt very, very lonely.  In an attempt to do something, I hopped into the car and drove down to Borders with the intention of just browsing.  Before calling it a night, and not feeling any better, I swung by the poetry section and looked through the Bukowski books.  While looking, I found it quite fitting to find a collection entitled You Get so Alone at Times that it Just Makes Sense.

So, for the second time in my life, I turned to a book of Bukowski poems for comfort, understanding, and, hopefully, peace.  Here are some of the poems from this collection.


friends within the darkness

I can remember starving in a
small room in a strange city
shades pulled down, listening to
classical music
I was young I was so young that it hurt like a knife
inside
because there was no alternative except to hide as long
as possible –
not in a self-pity but with dismay at my limited chance:
trying to connect.

the old composers – Mozart, Bach, Beethoven,
Brahms were the only ones who spoke to me and
they were dead.

finally, starved and beaten, I had to go into
the streets to be interviewed for low-paying and
monotonous
jobs
by strange men behind desks
men would take my hours
break them
piss on them.

now I work for the editors the readers the
critics

but still hang around and drink with
Mozart, Bach, Brahms, and the
Bee
some buddies
some men
sometimes all we need to be able to continue alone
are the dead
rattling the walls
that close us in.


drive through hell

the people are weary, unhappy and frustrated, the people are
bitter and vengeful, the people are deluded and fearful, the
people are angry and uninventive
and I drive among them  on the freeway as they project
what is left of themselves in the manner of their driving –
some more hateful, more thwarted than others –
some don’t like to be passed, some attempt, to keep others
from passing
– some attempt to block lane changes
– some hate cars of the newer, more expensive model
– others in these cars hate the older cars.

the freeway is a circus of cheap and petty emotions, it’s
humanity on the move, most of them coming from some place
they
hated and going to another place they hate just as much or
more.
the freeways are a lesson in what we have become and
most of the crashes and deaths are the collision
of incomplete beings, of pitiful and demented
lives.

when I drive the freeways I see the soul of humanity of
my city and it’s ugly, ugly, ugly: the living have choked the
heart
away.

Buy this book on Amazon.

Advertisements

Leave a comment

Filed under Charles Bukowski, Favorites, Poetry

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s