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Solero Taylor's avatar

ADVICE

Remember

When you go to see Barbie

That Babar the elephant

Like Bambi the roedeer

Both had mothers

Murdered as examples

Take a gun

Into the cinema

To protect yourselves

Charlie will betray you

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Shannon McCloud Johnson's avatar

A superb poet Charles is.

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Dian Parker's avatar

YES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

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Charles Taylor's avatar

Whitman said a lot, and he's one of the greatest. Shskespeare said a lot.

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Poetic Outlaws's avatar

Don't argue with poetry. You get the gist.

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Lisa B. Martin    zihuawriter's avatar

Classic. Truth. C.B. knew and felt these realities.

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June Lowboy's avatar

IN CHEAP PERFUMES AND DESERTED MOTEL ROOMS

(after Bukowski)

or in damn trenches

words spill out cheap boxed wine

im some ink-drunk mule

and you are bad

a fancy word for a fool

if roaches in light scatter

adding less to the world

minus a drunken bar fight

my poems are whispers or

farts in a sea of

wannabes doing as they please

cuz chasing them im a dogfish

barking after their stink

hell I aint blind and cant see

my slurred speech slurred

that's what I heard

where are the words

——

Do you ever compare Bukowski with Lifshin?

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June Lowboy's avatar

While Charles Bukowski's poetry—if one could call it that (and I see poiesis is non-evident in any lines, not to mention a practical or accidental or enjambment intentionally present)—exhibit raw, visceral qualities, the reader must acknowledge that his oeuvre while resonating with specific audiences, lacks the depth and universality required for lasting historical significance. Read Bukowski, and you trace your fingertip on page swirls of vomit, language units drowning somewhere underneath the muck.

His lines accentuate the mundane and coarse aspects of life, which, while compelling in frankness, limit the scope of his themes as he refuses to acknowledge that ideas are present in things themselves, as verisimilitude insists. 

In Bukowski’s banality, there is no Neruda and no joy, meaning no discovery. Bukowski only says what better poets said best before. He speaks without difference and indifferently.

For instance, in his poem "Nirvana," he writes, "The eyes have it, they say / it's in the eyes," employing repetition to underscore his point; however, his focus on the superficial facets of existence prevents him from exploring the profound complexities of the human condition that define poets of enduring renown who understand unlimbed appendages with horrified vision.

Moreover, Bukowski's use of crude language and explicit imagery fall flat, as seen in his poem "The Genius of the Crowd," his attempt to shock or provoke. Still, it ultimately detracts from the elegance and universality that defines timeless verse. His words are sexless. His poems are a love doll ordered on the cheap with next-day shipping. He writes, "And each man / kills the thing he loves...," evoking Wilde's sentiment but without any nuance or artistry that elevates literary expression which populates on occasion the verse of Jack Gilbert or M Sarki.

Additionally, in contrast to poets like T.S. Eliot, Wallace Stevens, or Emily Dickinson, whose carefully chosen words resonate with profound cultural and emotional resonance in the oral cavity, Bukowski's “verse” lacks verisimilitude in any object presented and in the refined subtlety that grants poetry power to transcend immediate context. Middle school girls think Bukowski possesses an immediacy that captures their sentiments. Still, his words fail and cannot pair to evoke the profound truths and universality that imbue great poetry with enduring relevance. In essence, HELLO, Charles Bukowski's poetry, though imbued with a distinctive voice (some claim), falls, falls, falls short of the intricate, multi-layered tapestry that characterizes poets of significance. His focus on the grittier aspects of life and his reliance on explicit language to shock do not galvanize the reader. His preoccupation hinders his ability to engage in the broader conversations that define lasting literary contributions like those of Rybicki, Cerevalo, Transtromer, Sarki, or Notrab.

Did someone mention Corso? Corso’s worse.

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June Lowboy's avatar

Yes. This post is an interesting feast—without an appetizer. I have no qualms with you. Be well. Keep giving.

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Mark Sampson's avatar

the best writers have said very little

and the worst, far too much.

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David Picariello's avatar

As always Hank you rock from beyond the grave.dave p

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Anne Leon's avatar

Browsing is always....

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Deanna Lewis's avatar

Thoughtful words to wake up to. Thank you for sharing!

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Weston Parker's avatar

A very tidy, pithy poem.

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