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Come On In!
New Poems
Charles Bukowski
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eBook - ePub
Come On In!
New Poems
Charles Bukowski
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Bukowski's unmistakable charisma â an ex-down-and-outer who wrote of booze and loneliness in maverick, confident free verse â made him one of the world's most popular poets long before he died in 1994. More than a decade later, death has not slowed his production. This collection is selected from an archive of verse that the author left to be published after his death. It includes poems of love and sex, advice to so-called losers (as he once was) to have confidence in themselves (as he did), gambling laments and humbling poems accepting his own imminent ultimate full stop.
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Poetryitâs a lonely world
of frightened people.
a note upon modern poesy
poetry has come a long way, though very slowly;
you arenât as old as I am
and I can remember reading
magazines where at the end of a poem
it said:
Paris, 1928.
that seemed to make a
difference, and so, those who could afford to
(and some who couldnât)
went to
PARIS
and wrote.
I am also old enough so that I remember when poems
made many references to the Greek and Roman
gods.
if you didnât know your gods you werenât a very good
writer.
also, if you couldnât slip in a line of
Spanish, French or
Italian,
you certainly werenât a very good
writer.
5 or 6 decades ago,
maybe 7,
some poets started using
âiâ for âIâ
or
â&â for âand.â
many still use a small
âiâ and many more continue to use the
â&â
feeling that this is
poetically quite effective and
up-to-date.
also, the oldest notion still in vogue is
that if you canât understand a poem then
it almost certainly is a
good one.
poetry is still moving slowly forward, I guess,
and when your average garage mechanics
start bringing books of poesy to read
on their lunch breaks
then weâll know for sure weâre moving in
the right
direction.
&
of this
i
am sure.
the end of an era
he lived in the Village
in New York
in the old days
and only after he died
did he get a write-up
in a snob magazine,
a magazine which had
never printed his
poems.
he came from the days
when poets called
themselves
Bohemians.
he wore a beret and a
scarf
and hung around the
cafés,
bummed drinks,
sometimes got a
nightâs lodging from the
rich
(just for
laughs)
but mostly
he slept in the alleys
at night.
the whores knew him
well
and gave him
little
hand-outs.
he was a communist
or a
socialist
depending upon what
he was
reading
at that
moment.
it was 1939
and he had a
burning hatred
in his heart
for the
Nazis.
when he
recited his poems
in the street
he always
ended up
frothing about the
Nazis.
he passed out
little stapled
pages
of his
poems
and
he wrote
with a
simple
intensity.
he was good
but not
great.
and even the good poems
were not
that
good.
anyhow
he was an
attraction;
the tourists always
asked for
him.
he was always
in love
with some
new whore.
he had a
real
soul
and the usual
real
needs.
he stank
and wore cast-off clothes
and he screamed
when he spoke
but
at least
he wasnât anybody
but
himself.
the Village was
his
Paris.
but unlike
Henry Miller
who made...