CharlesBukowski



Upon reading or listening to one of Charles Bukowski´s poems, some people would not consider it more than a drunk man´s musings. Bukowski did not use flowing language or brilliant metaphors. Most of the time; he was just angry and drunk. He relied more on emotions and imagination than on laying everything out for the reader. His simple language was easy to relate to and, combined with his aggressive and sexual themes, he soon became a cult favorite. His poetry is not only single poems but like a continuous, and often times humorous, tale of his life. His style was consistent and insistent; leaving his personality to inspire many, even after his death.

media type="youtube" key="iCrn1LDDoRc" height="315" width="420" A reading of ¨A Secret to My Endurance¨ by Charles Bukowski (my poem was not available!)

= **I'm In Love by Charles Bukowski** = she's young, she said, but look at me, I have pretty ankles, and look at my wrists, I have pretty wrists o my god, I thought it was all working, and now it's her again, every time she phones you go crazy, you told me it was over you told me it was finished, listen, I've lived long enough to become a good woman, why do you need a bad woman? you need to be tortured, don't you? you think life is rotten if somebody treats you rotten it all fits, doesn't it? tell me, is that it? do you want to be treated like a piece of shit? and my son, my son was going to meet you. I told my son <span style="font-family: Verdana,Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">and I dropped all my lovers. <span style="font-family: Verdana,Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I stood up in a cafe and screamed <span style="font-family: Verdana,Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I'M IN LOVE, <span style="font-family: Verdana,Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">and how you've made a fool of me. . . <span style="font-family: Verdana,Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I'm sorry, I said, I'm really sorry. <span style="font-family: Verdana,Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">hold me, she said, will you please hold me? <span style="font-family: Verdana,Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I've never been in one of these things before, I said, <span style="font-family: Verdana,Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">these triangles. . . <span style="font-family: Verdana,Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">she got up and lit a cigarette, she was trembling all <span style="font-family: Verdana,Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">over.she paced up and down,wild and crazy.she had <span style="font-family: Verdana,Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">a small body.her arms were thin,very thin and when <span style="font-family: Verdana,Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">she screamed and started beating me I held her <span style="font-family: Verdana,Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">wrists and then I got it through the eyes:hatred, <span style="font-family: Verdana,Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">centuries deep and true.I was wrong and graceless and <span style="font-family: Verdana,Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">sick.all the things I had learned had been wasted. <span style="font-family: Verdana,Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">there was no creature living as foul as I <span style="font-family: Verdana,Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">and all my poems were <span style="font-family: Verdana,Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">false.

The poem is about Bukowski, who is with a lover of his. The woman is upset because he happens to have feeling another woman as well. The woman goes on to talk about how she notices that Bukowski gets excited when the other woman calls or he revels in the fact that this girl is more exciting. She makes the assumption that Bukowski wants to be treated poorly. She fell in love with him but he made a fool out of her. He apologizes but then she is screaming and hitting him. He feels despicable and wishes that he had not hurt her. The poem mostly consists of verbs and descriptors. There is no clear distinction of who is talking so it tends to be a bit confusing at times, if it is not read carefully. I admire this poem a lot because Bukowski is able to make poetry out of a conversation.

The Assembly wasn’t something I looked forward to. I had to attend because of my copious amount of absences that I had already accumulated. I expected to feel nothing, like usual. Who wants to feel anything anyways? My classmates verbalized their deepest secrets and hopes, spilled out their soul for everyone to see. I sat in awe. I was jealous. Their strength was mystified. It was different, strange. For you see, my strength lies in how tightly I hold myself together. But…. I suppose the seams have felt like they’ve been bursting open lately. My secrets are neither tragic nor are they worthy of sympathy, empathy, or any kind of –pathy. My secrets are despicable, everyone cheers, //I found my mother in a pool of blood// my secrets are disgusting, the poet (my classmate) smiles proudly, //I was made fun of for my skin color// my secrets are not of any importance, the next person stands up to speak, //I grew up in the hood, danger around ever corner// and I smile along with everyone else. My problems are my own damn fault. I’m a monster and all of your pity would be wasted.
 * Secrets** by Alycia Kay (written in the style of Charles Bukowski)