The following three poems give us a look into the character of the poet Charles Bukowski. Enjoy!
cold summer by Charles Bukowski
not as bad as it could be
but bad enough: in and out
of the hospital, in and out of
the doctor’s office, hanging
by a thread: “you’re in
remission, no, wait, 2 new
cells here, and your
platelets are way down.
have you been drinking?
we’ll probably have to take
another bone marrow test
tomorrow.”
the doctor is busy, the
waiting room in the cancer
ward is crowded.
the nurses are pleasant, they
joke with me.
I think that’s nice, joking while in the
valley of the
shadow of death.
my wife is with me.
I am sorry for my wife, I am
sorry for all the
wives.
then we are down in the
parking lot.
she drives sometimes.
I drive sometimes.
I drive now.
it’s been a cold summer.
“maybe you should take a
little swim we get home,”
says my
wife.
it’s a warmer day than
usual.
“sure,” I say and pull out of
the parking lot.
she’s a brave woman, she
acts like everything is
as usual.
but now I’ve got to pay for all
those profligate years;
there were so many of
them.
the bill has come due
and they’ll accept only
one final
payment.
I might as well take a
swim.
Charles Bukowski
1920-1994
not as bad as it could be
but bad enough: in and out
of the hospital, in and out of
the doctor’s office, hanging
by a thread: “you’re in
remission, no, wait, 2 new
cells here, and your
platelets are way down.
have you been drinking?
we’ll probably have to take
another bone marrow test
tomorrow.”
but bad enough: in and out
of the hospital, in and out of
the doctor’s office, hanging
by a thread: “you’re in
remission, no, wait, 2 new
cells here, and your
platelets are way down.
have you been drinking?
we’ll probably have to take
another bone marrow test
tomorrow.”
the doctor is busy, the
waiting room in the cancer
ward is crowded.
waiting room in the cancer
ward is crowded.
the nurses are pleasant, they
joke with me.
I think that’s nice, joking while in the
valley of the
shadow of death.
my wife is with me.
I am sorry for my wife, I am
sorry for all the
wives.
joke with me.
I think that’s nice, joking while in the
valley of the
shadow of death.
my wife is with me.
I am sorry for my wife, I am
sorry for all the
wives.
then we are down in the
parking lot.
she drives sometimes.
I drive sometimes.
I drive now.
it’s been a cold summer.
“maybe you should take a
little swim we get home,”
says my
wife.
parking lot.
she drives sometimes.
I drive sometimes.
I drive now.
it’s been a cold summer.
“maybe you should take a
little swim we get home,”
says my
wife.
it’s a warmer day than
usual.
usual.
“sure,” I say and pull out of
the parking lot.
the parking lot.
she’s a brave woman, she
acts like everything is
as usual.
acts like everything is
as usual.
but now I’ve got to pay for all
those profligate years;
there were so many of
them.
the bill has come due
and they’ll accept only
one final
payment.
those profligate years;
there were so many of
them.
the bill has come due
and they’ll accept only
one final
payment.
I might as well take a
swim.
swim.
Charles Bukowski
1920-1994
1920-1994
a 340 dollar horse and a hundred dollar whore
don’t ever get the idea I am a poet; you can see me
at the racetrack any day half drunk
betting quarters, sidewheelers and straight thoroughs,
but let me tell you, there are some women there
who go where the money goes, and sometimes when you
look at these whores these onehundreddollar whores
you wonder sometimes if nature isn’t playing a joke
dealing out so much breast and ass and the way
it’s all hung together, you look and you look and
you look and you can’t believe it; there are ordinary women
and then there is something else that wants to make you
tear up paintings and break albums of Beethoven
across the back of the john; anyhow, the season
was dragging and the big boys were getting busted,
all the non-pros, the producers, the cameraman,
the pushers of Mary, the fur salesman, the owners
themselves, and Saint Louie was running this day:
a sidewheeler that broke when he got in close;
he ran with his head down and was mean and ugly
and 35 to 1, and I put a ten down on him.
the driver broke him wide
took him out by the fence where he’d be alone
even if he had to travel four times as far,
and that’s the way he went it
all the way by the outer fence
traveling two miles in one
and he won like he was mad as hell
and he wasn’t even tired,
and the biggest blonde of all
all ass and breast, hardly anything else
went to the payoff window with me.
that night I couldn’t destroy her
although the springs shot sparks
and they pounded on the walls.
later she sat there in her slip
drinking Old Grandad
and she said
what’s a guy like you doing
living in a dump like this?
and I said
I’m a poet
and she threw back her beautiful head and laughed.
you? you . . . a poet?
I guess you’re right, I said, I guess you’re right.
but still she looked good to me, she still looked good,
and all thanks to an ugly horse
who wrote this poem.
"a 340 dollar horse and a hundred dollar whore" by Charles Bukowski, from Burning in Water, Drowning in Flame: Selected Poems 1955-1973. Copyright © 1963, 1964, 1965, 1966, 1967, 1968, 1974 by Charles Bukowski. Used by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, www.harpercollins.com.
Source: Burning in Water Drowning in Flame: Selected Poems 1955-1973 (Black Sparrow Press, 1996)
Source: Burning in Water Drowning in Flame: Selected Poems 1955-1973 (Black Sparrow Press, 1996)
About My Very Tortured Friend, Peter
BY CHARLES BUKOWSKI
he lives in a house with a swimming pool
and says the job is
killing him.
he is 27. I am 44. I can’t seem to
get rid of
him. his novels keep coming
back. “what do you expect me to do?” he screams
“go to New York and pump the hands of the
publishers?”
“no,” I tell him, “but quit your job, go into a
small room and do the
thing.”
“but I need ASSURANCE, I need something to
go by, some word, some sign!”
“some men did not think that way:
Van Gogh, Wagner—”
“oh hell, Van Gogh had a brother who gave him
paints whenever he
needed them!”
“look,” he said, “I’m over at this broad’s house today and
this guy walks in. a salesman. you know
how they talk. drove up in this new
car. talked about his vacation. said he went to
Frisco—saw Fidelio up there but forgot who
wrote it. now this guy is 54 years
old. so I told him: ‘Fidelio is Beethoven’s only
opera.’ and then I told
him: ‘you’re a jerk!’ ‘whatcha mean?’ he
asked. ‘I mean, you’re a jerk, you’re 54 years old and
you don’t know anything!’”
“what happened
then?”
“I walked out.”
“you mean you left him there with
her?”
“yes.”
“I can’t quit my job,” he said. “I always have trouble getting a
job. I walk in, they look at me, listen to me talk and
they think right away, ah ha! he’s too intelligent for
this job, he won’t stay
so there’s really no sense in hiring
him.
now, YOU walk into a place and you don’t have any trouble:
you look like an old wino, you look like a guy who needs a
job and they look at you and they think:
ah ha!: now here’s a guy who really needs work! if we hire
him he’ll stay a long time and work
HARD!”
“do any of those people,” he asks “know you are a
writer, that you write poetry?”
“no.”
“you never talk about
it. not even to
me! if I hadn’t seen you in that magazine I’d
have never known.”
“that’s right.”
“still, I’d like to tell these people that you are a
writer.”
“I’d still like to
tell them.”
“why?”
“well, they talk about you. they think you are just a
horseplayer and a drunk.”
“I am both of those.”
“well, they talk about you. you have odd ways. you travel alone.
I’m the only friend you
have.”
“yes.”
“they talk you down. I’d like to defend you. I’d like to tell
them you write
poetry.”
“leave it alone. I work here like they
do. we’re all the same.”
“well, I’d like to do it for myself then. I want them to know why
I travel with
you. I speak 7 languages, I know my music—”
“forget it.”
“all right, I’ll respect your
wishes. but there’s something else—”
“what?”
“I’ve been thinking about getting a
piano. but then I’ve been thinking about getting a
violin too but I can’t make up my
mind!”
“buy a piano.”
“you think
so?”
“yes.”
he walks away
thinking about
it.
I was thinking about it
too: I figure he can always come over with his
violin and more
sad music.
"About My Very Tortured Friend, Peter" by Charles Bukowski, from The Roominghouse Madrigals: Early Selected Poems 1946-1966. Copyright © 1960, 1962, 1963, 1965, 1968, 1988 by Charles Bukowski. Used by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, www.harpercollins.com.
Source: The Roominghouse Madrigals: Early Selected Poems 1946-1966 (Black Sparrow Press, 1988)
Creative Response:
Write a character analysis of Peter. Who is he? How does he think? Why is he so tortured? What is Peter's problem? Try to figure this poor guy out.
Trapped
in the winter on my
ceiling my eyes the size of street-
lamps.
I have 4 feet like a mouse but
wash my own underwear-bearded and
hungover and a hard-on and no lawyer.
I have a face like a washrag.
I sing
love songs and carry steel.
I would rather die than cry.
I can't
stand hounds can't live without them.
I hang my head against the white
refrigerator and want to scream like
the last weeping of life forever but
I am bigger then the mountains.
Sway With Me
sway with me, everything sad --
madmen in stone houses
without doors,
lepers steaming love and song
frogs trying to figure
the sky;
sway with me, sad things --
fingers split on a forge
old age like breakfast shell
used books, used people
used flowers, used love
I need you
I need you
I need you:
it has run away
like a horse or a dog,
dead or lost
or unforgiving.
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