Posts Tagged Charles Bukowski
On Love by Charles Bukowski. Ecco| February 2, 2016| 224 pages | $24.99| ISBN: 978-0-06-239603-7
“I’ve done the town, I’ve drunk the city. I’ve fucked the country, I’ve pissed on the universe. there’s little left to do but consolidate and ease out.”
–from “the trashing of the dildo”
I’ve come to appreciate poet Charles Bukowski recently. I read mostly Anne Sexton, Sylvia Plath and Mary Oliver. On Love is the third Charles Bukowski anthology from Ecco—the first two are On Writing and On Cats. I’m missing On Writing so hoping someone will gift it to me.
This poetry collection is perfect for both the Bukowski fan and the neophyte. Love becomes broadly defined to include: writing [in the poem “Carson McCullers,” Bukowski writes: “all her books of terrified loneliness/ all her books about cruelty/ of the loveless lover/ were all that were left of her.”; a typewriter [“we get along”]; books [“the first love:” “they brought me chance and hope and feeling in a place of no chance, no hope, no feeling.”]; his daughter [“poem for my daughter”]; sex [“the shower”]; lust; and commitment. In “I can hear the sound of human lives being ripped to pieces,” Bukowski says of creativity: “I don’t know why people think effort and energy have anything to do with creation.”
Writing for Bukowski means slitting his veins. He’s realistic and open. He relishes his experiences. He carefully contemplates then shares with his readers. He writes candidly and with full emotion always. He doesn’t censor or make anything especially pretty but he makes everything brim with feelings.
In “raw with love [for N.W.]:” “I will remember the hours of kisses our lips raw with love and how you offered me your cunt your soul your insides and how I answered offering you whatever was left of me.” It’s dirty and visceral and brash and honest. Bukowski writes: “I care for you, darling, I love you, the only reason I fucked L. is because you fucked Z. and then you fucked R. and you fucked N. and because you fucked N, I had to fuck Y.” Yes this from “blue moon, oh bleweeww mooooon how I adore you!” One of my favorite poems in this compilation is “a definition” in which he broadly, specifically and uniquely defines love—“love is what happens one day a year one year in ten” and “love is betrayal” and “love is what you think the other person has destroyed” and “love is everything we said it wasn’t” and “love is an old woman pinching a loaf of bread.”
The un-Valentine’s Day gift to give to that special someone. Or read it aloud to a friend or a lover. Read it by yourself in bed, in the tub, in the sun, in a snow storm. Soak it in.
–review by Amy Steele
FTC Disclosure: I received this book for review from Harper Collins.
On Cats by Charles Bukowski [edited by Abel Debritto]. Ecco| December 1, 2015| 128 pages | $25.99| ISBN: 9780062395993
Some of the poems exude a slight disdain for cats and their nature. In most of the poems and stories it’s clear that Charles Bukowski truly cared about cats. When cats do their own thing he expresses awe and admiration.These poems scratch, spit, scowl and purr just like cats.
In the poem “a reader:” my cat shit in my archives/ he climbed into my Gold State Sunkist/ orange box/ and he shit on my poems/ my original poems/ save for the university archives. / that one-eared fat black critic/ he signed me off.” In one story Bukowski writes: “The Arabians admire the cat, look down upon women and dogs because they show affection and affection is, some think, a sign of weakness.” A poem starts: “the Egyptian loves the cat/ were often entombed with it/ instead of the woman/ and never the dog.” In another story he writes: “TV can make me ill in five minutes, but I can look at an animal for hours and find nothing but grace and glory, life as it should be.” In the poem “one for the old boy,” he addresses the death of one of his cats: “now he’s in the rose garden/ and I’ve heard a stirring march/ playing for him/ inside of me . . .”
The poem “exactly fine” begins: “the strays keep arriving; now we have 5 cats and they are tenuous, flighty, conceited, naturally bright and awesomely beautiful.” Bukowski even mocks himself with this line: “I dislike cute cat poems but I’ve written one anyhow.” In the poem “5 cats” he describes his cats. The poem “my cats” nearly brims with Bukowski-style emotions. He writes: “they complain but never worry./ they walk with surprising dignity./ they sleep with a direct simplicity that humans just can’t understand.”
On Cats will be a treat for any Bukowski fan. There are pictures throughout of his 10 cats. Sometimes Bukowski and a cat or his wife and a cat. He reveals that the couple treats the cats as children.
FTC Disclosure: I received this book for review from Ecco.