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Showing posts with label Charles Bukowski. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Charles Bukowski. Show all posts

eNothing Audio Series -- "Bluebird" by Charles Bukowski -- Read by Charles Bukowski

Charles Bukowski has about 5 poems represented in the eNothing archive of articles.  "So you want to be a writer", "Fire Station", "To The Whore Who Stole my Poems", are featured here, as well as one of his more famous works, "Bluebird" -- which was originally featured on "POEM OF THE DAY" series and also the "TOP 100 or so POEMS of ALL TIME" series of posts and tweets from the eNOTHING blog.

Our Audio series selects a number of great poems and allows you to listen to them as poetry readings.  Preferably, and in most cases the reading will be performed by the author -- in some cases they will be performed by a professional or amateur.

In any case, the idea is to lift that burden of interpretation occasionally.  Just sit back and listen.

On this poem, you can almost feel the cold toughness of Bukowski -- you can enter his world of "Whiskey, Whores and Cigarette smoke" and actually hear it in his unapologetic voice.  But you also get a teeny hint (and almost subliminal shot) of his heart, his broken heart, his childhood and his sensitivity, through the begrudging existence of the Bluebird there within it.

Enjoy!




POEM OF THE DAY, "Mama" by Charles Bukowski

We love the brutal truth of Charles Bukowski as evidenced by the fact that a number of his poems have made our Twitter "Poem of the Day" broadcasts. A couple, including "Fire Station" and "Bluebird" have made our Top 100 or so...list. Admittedly, this brutal view of life through goggles of cynicism and alcohol and sexual pursuits (for me) can wear thin after about 4 poems.

Then it's time to put the book down and watch a baby or something pure.

But this poem, "Mama" seems to be the only one I could find in which he isn't influenced by sex or alcohol or seediness.

Of course, he wrote it shortly after his death, so that would make sense.

Mama

by Charles Bukowski

here I am
in the ground
my mouth
open
and
I can't even say
mama,
and
the dogs run by and stop and piss
on my stone; I get it all
except the sun
and my suit is looking
bad
and yesterday
the last of my left
arm gone
very little left, all harp-like
without music.

at least a drunk
in bed with a cigarette
might cause 5 fire
engines and
33 men.

I can't
do
any
thing.

but p.s. -- Hector Richmond in the next
tomb thinks only of Mozart and candy
caterpillars.
he is
very bad
company.

-

POEM OF THE DAY "The Genius of the Crowd" by Charles Bukowski

What can I say?  Taking a break from Whitman and falling back into my element here, welcome back to the world of Bukowski.
The Genius Of The Crowd  
by Charles Bukowski
there is enough treachery, hatred violence absurdity in the average
human being to supply any given army on any given day

and the best at murder are those who preach against it
and the best at hate are those who preach love
and the best at war finally are those who preach peace

those who preach god, need god
those who preach peace do not have peace
those who preach peace do not have love

beware the preachers
beware the knowers
beware those who are always reading books
beware those who either detest poverty
or are proud of it
beware those quick to praise
for they need praise in return
beware those who are quick to censor
they are afraid of what they do not know
beware those who seek constant crowds for
they are nothing alone
beware the average man the average woman
beware their love, their love is average
seeks average

but there is genius in their hatred
there is enough genius in their hatred to kill you
to kill anybody
not wanting solitude
not understanding solitude
they will attempt to destroy anything
that differs from their own
not being able to create art
they will not understand art
they will consider their failure as creators
only as a failure of the world
not being able to love fully
they will believe your love incomplete
and then they will hate you
and their hatred will be perfect

like a shining diamond
like a knife
like a mountain
like a tiger
like hemlock

their finest art 
-

Top 100 or so Poems -- POEM OF THE DAY -- "Bluebird" by Charles Bukowski

11/15/2011 -- Bluebird certainly qualifies for our top 100 list. There may be other Bukowski poems to be considered - but Bluebird shakes out as an American classic.

Ahhhh...Bluebird by Bukowski. This is the first Charles Bukowski poem that I ever read...and one of the ones I remember the most (besides the Firehouse and Whore ones). Makes me feel melancholy.


But I don't cry.

Do you?


Bluebird

by Charles Bukowski


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 pur 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?

-

POEM OF THE DAY -- "Girl In A Miniskirt Reading The Bible Outside My Window" by Charles Bukowski

Take A Bukowski Break.
Take a break from the proper, genteel French Surrealists, a break from the educated and gentrified Poet Lauriates, a break from the rules and regulations of our despised and despicable poetry professor, a break from the pretty but faux sunny flowers of the poet-mom hiding her breaking heart -- as it happens behind the vastness of the perfect meadow she creates with words (and her smiling avatar real estate photo), a break from the stale British poets nose-up and lips pursed...I think it's time for some good old LA gutter dirt, with no walls or filters - real life, as it were.
Guys, pretend you're Charles (just don't get caught) looking out your window.  Girls, put yourself in the girls shoes - don't you feel pretty?  Now, change places!  In any event, we're in the gutter for a while.  Enjoy it while it lasts.
If you don't own any Bukowski books, or you want to add to your collection, see the link below - a great book of selected poems by Charles Bukowski.

Girl In A Miniskirt Reading The Bible Outside My Window  
by Charles Bukowski
Sunday, I am eating a
grapefruit, church is over at the Russian
Orthadox to the
west.

she is dark
of Eastern descent,
large brown eyes look up from the Bible
then down. a small red and black
Bible, and as she reads
her legs keep moving, moving,
she is doing a slow rythmic dance
reading the Bible. . .

long gold earrings;
2 gold bracelets on each arm,
and it's a mini-suit, I suppose,
the cloth hugs her body,
the lightest of tans is that cloth,
she twists this way and that,
long yellow legs warm in the sun. . .

there is no escaping her being
there is no desire to. . .

my radio is playing symphonic music
that she cannot hear
but her movements coincide exactly
to the rythms of the
symphony. . .

she is dark, she is dark
she is reading about God.
I am God. 
-

POEM OF THE DAY "As The Sparrow" by Charles Bukowski

Apologies to everyone for the absence of our usual poetry insertions this week; based on your tweets and emails, we know you look forward to  Poem of the DayI've been working on a major project and I'm done...hooray!  We're back!  


Enjoy the return of Bukowski as well...and there's a recommended book below (Bukowski's Poetry of course):

As the Sparrow

By Charles Bukowski

To give life you must take life,  
and as our grief falls flat and hollow
upon the billion-blooded sea
I pass upon serious inward-breaking shoals rimmed
with white-legged, white-bellied rotting creatures
lengthily dead and rioting against surrounding scenes.
Dear child, I only did to you what the sparrow
did to you; I am old when it is fashionable to be
young; I cry when it is fashionable to laugh.
I hated you when it would have taken less courage
to love.


-

POEM OF THE DAY "The Poetry Reading" by Charles Bukowski


The Poetry Reading

by Charles Bukowski

at high noon
at a small college near the beach
sober
the sweat running down my arms
a spot of sweat on the table
I flatten it with my finger
blood money blood money
my god they must think I love this like the others
but it's for bread and beer and rent
blood money
I'm tense lousy feel bad
poor people I'm failing I'm failing
a woman gets up
walks out
slams the door
a dirty poem
somebody told me not to read dirty poems
here
it's too late.
my eyes can't see some lines
I read it
out-
desperate trembling
lousy
they can't hear my voice
and I say,
I quit, that's it, I'm
finished.
and later in my room
there's scotch and beer:
the blood of a coward.
this then
will be my destiny:
scrabbling for pennies in tiny dark halls
reading poems I have long since beome tired
of.
and I used to think
that men who drove buses
or cleaned out latrines
or murdered men in alleys were
fools.

-

POEM OF THE DAY "Fire Station" by Charles Bukowski


This is the great poem which chronicles the poet's drunken afternoon with his "girlfriend". This is a
perfect testament to the seamier side of life...comments are welcome. This poem is hard to find. Share it with your friends...

Fire station (for jane, with love)

by Charles Bukowski

we came out of the bar
because we were out of money
but we had a couple of wine bottles
in the room.

it was about 4 in the afternoon
and we passed a fire station
and she started to go
crazy:

“a FIRE STATION! oh, I just love
FIRE engines, they’re so red and
all! let’s go in!”

I followed her on
in. “FIRE ENGINES!” she screamed
wobbling her big
ass.

she was already trying to climb into
one, pulling her skirt up to her
waist, trying to jackknife up into the
seat.

“here, here, lemme help ya!” a fireman ran
up.

another firman walked up to
me: “our citizens are always welcome,”
he told
me.

the other guy was up in the seat with
her. “you got one of those big THINGS?”
she asked him. “oh, hahaha!, I mean one of
those big HELMETS!”

“I’ve got a big helmet too, “ he told
her.

“oh, hahaha!”

“you play cards?” I asked my
fireman. I had 43 cents and nothing but
time.

“come on back,” he said. “of course, we don’t gamble.
It’s against the
Rules.”

“I understand,” I told
him.

I had run my 43 cents up to a
dollar ninety
when I saw her going upstairs with
her fireman.

“he’s gonna show me their sleeping
quarters,” she told
me.

“I understand,” I told
her.

when her fireman slid down the pole
ten minutes later
I nodded him
over.

“that’ll be 5
dollars.”

“5 dollars for
that?”

“we wouldn’t want a scandal, would
we? we both might lose our
jobs. of course, I’m not
working.”

he gave me the
5.

“sit down, you might get it
back.”

“whatcha playing?”
“blackjack.”

“gambling’s against the
law.”

“anything interesting is. besides,
you see any money on the
table?”
he sat down.

that made 5 of
us.

“how was it Harry?” somebody asked
Him.

“not bad, not
bad.”

the other guy went on
upstairs

they were bad players really.
they didn’t bother to memorize the
deck. they didn’t know whether the
high numbers or low numbers were left. and basically they hit too high,
didn’t hold low
enough.

when the other guy came down
he gave me a
five.

“how was it, Marty?”
“not bad. she’s got…some fine
movements.”

“hit me!” I said. “nice clean girl. I
ride it myself.”

nobody said
anything.

“any big fires lately?” I
asked.

“naw. nothin’
much.”

‘you guys need
exercise. hit me
again!”

a big red-headed kid who had been shining an
engine
threw down his rag and
went upstairs.

when he came down he threw me a
five.

when the 4th guy came down I gave him
3 fives for a
twenty.

I don’t know how many firemen
were in the building or where they
were. I figured a few had slipped by me
but I was a good
sport.

it was getting dark outside
when the alarm
rang.

they started running around.
guys came sliding down the
pole.

then she cam sliding down the
pole. she was good with the
pole. a real woman. Nothing but guts
and
ass.

“let’s go,” I told
her.

she stood there waving goodbye to the
firemen but they didn’t seem
much interested
any more.

“let’s go back to the
Bar,” I told
her.

“ooh, you got
money?”

“I found some I didn’t know I
had…”

we sat at the end of the bar
with whiskey and beer
chaser.
“I sure got a good
sleep.”

“sure, baby, you need your
sleep.”

“look at that sailor looking at me!
he must think I’m …a…”

“naw he don’t think that. relax, you’ve got
class, real class. Sometimes you remind me of an
opera singer. you know, one of those prima d’s.
your class shows all over
you. Drink
up.”

I ordered 2
more.

“you know, daddy, you’re the only man I
LOVE! I mean, really…LOVE! ya
know?”

“sure I know. sometimes I think I am a king
in spite of myself.”

“yeah. yeah. that’s what I mean, somethin’ like
that.”

I had to go to the urinal. when I came back
the sailor was sitting in my
seat. she had her leg up against his and
he was talking.

I walked over and got in a dart game with
Harry the Horse and the corner
newsboy.

-

POEM OF THE DAY "Magical Mystery Tour" by Charles Bukowski



Post your comments on this interesting piece.

magical mystery tour

by Charles Bukowski

I am in this low-slung sports car
painted a deep, rich yellow
driving under an Italian sun.
I have a British accent.
I'm wearing dark shades
an expensive silk shirt.
there's no dirt under my
fingernails.
the radio plays Vivaldi
and there are two women with
me
one with raven hair
the other a blonde.
they have small breasts and
beautiful legs
and they laugh at everything I
say.

as we drive up a steep road
the blonde squeezes my leg
and nestles closer
while raven hair
leans across and nibbles my
ear.

we stop for lunch at a quaint
rustic inn.
there is more laughter
before lunch
during lunch and after
lunch.

after lunch we will have a
flat tire on the other side of
the mountain
and the blonde will change the
tire
while
raven hair
photographs me
lighting my pipe
leaning against a tree
the perfect background
perfectly at peace
with
sunlight
flowers
clouds
birds
everywhere.

-

POEM OF THE DAY "For Jane: With All the Love I Had, Which Was Not Enough:" by Charles Bukowski


For Jane: With All the Love I Had, Which Was Not Enough:

by Charles Bukowski



I pick up the skirt,
I pick up the sparkling beads
in black,
this thing that moved once
around flesh,
and I call God a liar,
I say anything that moved
like that
or knew
my name
could never die
in the common verity of dying,
and I pick
up her lovely
dress,
all her loveliness gone,
and I speak to all the gods,
Jewish gods, Christ-gods,
chips of blinking things,
idols, pills, bread,
fathoms, risks,
knowledgeable surrender,
rats in the gravy of two gone quite mad
without a chance,
hummingbird knowledge, hummingbird chance,
I lean upon this,
I lean on all of this
and I know
her dress upon my arm
but
they will not
give her back to me.

-

POEM OF THE DAY "Here I Am" by Charles Bukowski


Here I Am ...

by Charles Bukowski


drunk again at 3 a.m. at the end of my 2nd bottle
of wine, I have typed from a dozen to 15 pages of
poesy
an old man
maddened for the flesh of young girls in this
dwindling twilight
liver gone
kidneys going
pancrea pooped
top-floor blood pressure
while all the fear of the wasted years
laughs between my toes
no woman will live with me
no Florence Nightingale to watch the
Johnny Carson show with
if I have a stroke I will lay here for six
days, my three cats hungrily ripping the flesh
from my elbows, wrists, head
the radio playing classical music ...
I promised myself never to write old man poems
but this one's funny, you see, excusable, be-
cause I've long gone past using myself and there's
still more left
here at 3 a.m. I am going to take this sheet from
the typer
pour another glass and
insert
make love to the fresh new whiteness
maybe get lucky
again
first for
me
later
for you.

-

POEM OF THE DAY "Trapped" By Charles Bukowski


Trapped

by Charles Bukowski

don't undress my love
you might find a mannequin:
don't undress the mannequin
you might find
my love.
she's long ago
forgotten me.
she's trying on a new
hat
and looks more the
coquette
than ever.

she is a
child
and a mannequin
and death.
I can't hate
that.
she didn't do
anything
unusual.
I only wanted her
to.

-

POEM OF THE DAY -- So You Want to Be A Writer" by Charles Bukowski


So You Want to Be A Writer

By Charles Bukowski

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.