Well, I got introduced to a new poet. Charles Bukowski. From the beat generation, or so said the bio I read on line. And a former postal employee, so we have that in common. You can read more about his life here. A shorter bio and a few of his poems can be found here.
Its funny, because I was advised to spend more time reading Bukowski and less time with my preferred poets who coincidentally or not wound up killing themselves. Now, I must say that Mr. Bukowski’s writing does speak to me, but what I have found so far is not especially uplifting.
Anyway, as an example of his work, here’s one that I like quite a lot:
BEER
from: Love is A Mad Dog From Hell
I don’t know how many bottles of beer
I have consumed while waiting for things
to get better
I dont know how much wine and whisky
and beer
mostly beer
I have consumed after
splits with women-
waiting for the phone to ring
waiting for the sound of footsteps,
and the phone to ring
waiting for the sounds of footsteps,
and the phone never rings
until much later
and the footsteps never arrive
until much later
when my stomach is coming up
out of my mouth
they arrive as fresh as spring flowers:
“what the hell have you done to yourself?
it will be 3 days before you can fuck me!”
the female is durable
she lives seven and one half years longer
than the male, and she drinks very little beer
because she knows its bad for the figure.
while we are going mad
they are out
dancing and laughing
with horney cowboys.
well, there’s beer
sacks and sacks of empty beer bottles
and when you pick one up
the bottles fall through the wet bottom
of the paper sack
rolling
clanking
spilling gray wet ash
and stale beer,
or the sacks fall over at 4 a.m.
in the morning
making the only sound in your life.
beer
rivers and seas of beer
the radio singing love songs
as the phone remains silent
and the walls stand
straight up and down
and beer is all there is.
Yeah, I have days like that sometimes.
Oh well, time to get ready for my weekly humiliation at pool league. At least there will be plenty of beer…..
UPDATE: Well, I played excellent darts last night. I hit three double bulls in a row. Quite the sight to see three darts in the black at the same time. It will probably never happen again. Of course, I was playing darts between pool games. Both of which I lost. I did play better, at least I avoided embarassing myself. And now the season is over. I don’t know yet if I will be invited back next season, or even if I want to put myself through that torture. I’m gonna keep practicing though.
And the beer was good and plentiful.
Ah but Bukowski is uplifting. He doesn’t merely endure his existence, he thrives. By the way the very fact that he even endures the existence he describes in his poetry instead of letting it depress him to the point of a) suicide or b) a loss of faith speaks volumes in my mind. This guy finds the notable in everyday life-beer, women, sex. He clearly has known his share of disappointments but he remains engaged in life. That is uplifting.
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