I was a rather prolific poet when I was a teenager. It was a very comforting and productive way to expel the tumultuous emotions that are part of growing up. Although I no longer write poetry, I do still greatly appreciate it. I admire and respect those who are able, with such eloquence, to close the gap that separates us by simply sharing a slice of life. The poet’s camera inspires an image within our imaginations and that becomes a connection between us. A connection between the poet, you, me and everyone else who reads those words, as though we were recalling a shared moment.
The ability to beautifully convey the most crass and humble of situations is a gift that was bestowed upon Charles Bukowski. His poetry turns loneliness and desperation into art. He tried to conquer his demons with classical music, a typewriter, a calm demeanor and a brilliant mind. Somehow, even when looking up from the gutter, Bukowski converted his vices, shabby motel rooms, and dark, dirty streets into easygoing friends.
I’ve lived the moment captured in this Bukowski poem many times in my mind. It is such a lovely example of freedom found despite the oppression of poverty. It quietly boasts a strength of character that few hidden behind the massive doors of modern day castles could hope to match.
you don’t know
you don’t know how good it
can get
being in a strange city,
nobody knowing who you
are,
coming in from the low-
paying
job,
forgetting dinner,
taking off your shoes,
climbing onto the bed,
lights out
in that cheap dark
room
living with the roaches
or the mice,
hearing the crackling of
the wallpaper
or the rush of small
feet darting
across the floor.
lifting the wine bottle
there in the moonlight
or in the light of the
street lamps and the
neon signs,
the wine entering your
body,
the flare of your match
lighting a
cigarette.
you don’t know how good
it can get
without women,
without a telephone,
without a tv set,
without a car.
with the bathroom down
the hall.
relaxed in the dark
hearing the voices of the
other roomers,
hearing pans rattling,
food frying,
toilets flushing,
arguments,
occasional
laughter.
you don’t know
the names of the
streets,
who the mayor is
or how long you
will remain.
you will remain
until the next city,
the next room,
the next low-paying
job.
the mice will become
bolder.
one will come up on
the dresser,
climb up on the handle
of the coffee cup,
hang there,
looking at you.
you will get up and
approach the mouse.
you are the
intruder.
as you get closer
he still will not
move.
his eyes and your eyes
will intermix.
it is the clash of
centuries.
then he will leap
through the air
in the darkness and
be gone.
you will return to
the bed, smiling,
thinking, he’s lucky,
he doesn’t have to
pay the rent.
you will drink some more
from the wine
bottle,
then rise, take off your
clothing, stack it on
the chair.
you will sit up against
the pillow,
listening to the cars
passing below.
you will get up,
check the alarm clock,
see that it is set for
7:30 a.m.
then, foolishly, you’ll
have to put your pants
on again
to make a bathroom
run.
the hall will be quiet
and empty,
the lights will be out,
there will only be
darkness under each
doorway,
the roomers are
sleeping.
your face
in the bathroom mirror
will grin at
you.
then you walk
back to your room,
get the pants off
again, hang them over
the back of the
chair that is possibly
older than
you.
the last drink is
best, the last flare of
the match
lighting the last
cigarette.
you hold the match,
still burning,
up against the palm
of your right
hand.
long life line.
too bad.
then to stretch out,
the covers up
against your
neck,
warm covers,
rented covers,
covers of love.
the day seeps slowly
back through your
consciousness.
not much.
then, like the other
roomers, you are
asleep.
you are equal to the
side of a
triangle,
to a mountain in
Peru,
to a tiger
licking its
paw.
you don’t know
how good it can be
until you’ve been
there.
Poem from Betting on the Muse: Poems & Stories by Charles Bukowski
Ah Bukowski! Interesting man. This is good. My favorite is about the bluebird. I bet you know it:
“There's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I'm not going
to let anybody see
you.
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I pur whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette smoke
and the whores and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that
he's
in there.
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say,
stay down, do you want to mess
me up?
you want to screw up the
works?
you want to blow my book sales in
Europe?
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too clever, I only let him out
at night sometimes
when everybody's asleep.
I say, I know that you're there,
so don't be
sad.
then I put him back,
but he's singing a little
in there, I haven't quite let him
die
and we sleep together like
that
with our
secret pact
and it's nice enough to
make a man
weep, but I don't
weep, do you?”