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.
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
A superb poet Charles is.
YES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Whitman said a lot, and he's one of the greatest. Shskespeare said a lot.
Don't argue with poetry. You get the gist.
Classic. Truth. C.B. knew and felt these realities.
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?
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.
Jim Harrison said it best.
https://poeticoutlaws.substack.com/p/the-pleasures-of-the-damned?fbclid=IwAR2YlynDLi0gM4uQP2qtUp2zD9OnhwBH1FEiigYj-0x1PpJFcCgg0BKLKnU
Yes. This post is an interesting feast—without an appetizer. I have no qualms with you. Be well. Keep giving.
the best writers have said very little
and the worst, far too much.
As always Hank you rock from beyond the grave.dave p
Browsing is always....
Read the actual poem here:
https://bukowski.net/database/detail.php?w=623&Title=as-the-poems-go
Thoughtful words to wake up to. Thank you for sharing!
A very tidy, pithy poem.