Thursday, August 16, 2012

Happy Birthday Charles Bukowski !

Henry Charles Bukowski
Today is the birthday of an American poet, novelist and short story writer Henry Charles Bukowski (born Heinrich Karl Bukowski ; August 16, 1920 – March 9, 1994). 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. In 1986 Time called Bukowski a "laureate of American lowlife". Regarding Bukowski's enduring popular appeal, Adam Kirsch of The New Yorker wrote, "the secret of Bukowski’s appeal. He combines the confessional poet’s promise of intimacy with the larger-than-life aplomb of a pulp-fiction hero. Presenting some poems : Being Poet

A Following

the phone rang at 1:30 a.m.
and it was a man from Denver: 

A Challenge To The Dark

shot in the eye 
shot in the brain 
shot in the ass 
shot like a flower in the dance 

40,000

at the track today,
Father's Day,
each paid admission was
entitled to a wallet
and each contained a
little surprise. 

And The Moon And The Stars And The World

Long walks at night-- 
that's what good for the soul: 
peeking into windows 
watching tired housewives 
trying to fight off 
their beer-maddened husbands. 
16-bit Intel 8088 chip
with an Apple Macintosh
you can't run Radio Shack programs
in its disc drive.
nor can a Commodore 64
drive read a file
you have created on an
IBM Personal Computer.
both Kaypro and Osborne computers use
the CP/M operating system
but can't read each other's
handwriting
for they format (write
on) discs in different
ways.
the Tandy 2000 runs MS-DOS but
can't use most programs produced for
the IBM Personal Computer
unless certain
bits and bytes are
altered
but the wind still blows over
Savannah
and in the Spring
the turkey buzzard struts and
flounces before his
hens. 

Alone With Everybody

the flesh covers the bone 
and they put a mind 
in there and 
sometimes a soul, 
and the women break 
vases against the walls 
and the men drink too 
much 
and nobody finds the 
one 
but keep 
looking 
crawling in and out 
of beds. 
flesh covers 
the bone and the 
flesh searches 
for more than 
flesh. 
there's no chance 
at all: 
we are all trapped 
by a singular 
fate. 
nobody ever finds 
the one. 
the city dumps fill 
the junkyards fill 
the madhouses fill 
the hospitals fill 
the graveyards fill 
nothing else 
fills. 

A Smile To Remember

we had goldfish and they circled around and around
in the bowl on the table near the heavy drapes
covering the picture window and
my mother, always smiling, wanting us all
to be happy, told me, 'be happy Henry!'
and she was right: it's better to be happy if you
can
but my father continued to beat her and me several times a week while
raging inside his 6-foot-two frame because he couldn't
understand what was attacking him from within. 
my mother, poor fish,
wanting to be happy, beaten two or three times a
week, telling me to be happy: 'Henry, smile!
why don't you ever smile?' 
and then she would smile, to show me how, and it was the
saddest smile I ever saw 

one day the goldfish died, all five of them,
they floated on the water, on their sides, their
eyes still open,
and when my father got home he threw them to the cat
there on the kitchen floor and we watched as my mother smiled