Born : August 16, 1920
Place of Birth : Andernach, Germany
Died : March 9, 1994
Place of death : San Pedro, California


Charles Bukowski was born in Germany in 1920 and came with his family to the United States when he was three years old. He grew up in poverty in Los Angeles, drifted extensively, and for much of his life made his home in San Pedro. Bukowski had been a writer since childhood, published his first story at age twenty four, and began publishing poetry when he was thirty-five.

Bukowski is generally considered to be an honorary "beat writer," although he was never actually associated with Jack Kerouac, Allen Ginsberg, and the other bona fide beat writers. His style, which exhibits a strong sense of immediacy and a refusal to embrace standard formal structure, has earned him a place in the hearts of beat generation readers.He was a prolific (it isn't known how much he had written; much of it was sent off to publishers long-hand and never seen again), free-formed, humorous, and painfully honest writer. His topics included hang-overs, the shit stains on his underwear, classical music, horse-racing and whores. He was at home with the people of the streets, the skid row bums, the hustlers, the transient life style. His language is the poetry of the streets viewed from the honesty of a hang-over.

Most of Bukowski's work is based on his own experience, wandering from city to city, from job to job, from woman to woman. Bukowski became widely known after the release of the movie Barfly. He wrote the screenplay and was somewhat involved in the production of this film which featured Mickey Rourke in the role of Chinaski/Bukowski.

Although Barfly brought Hank to the masses in a big way, Bukowski is primarily known in literary circles for his poetry. He has stated that he does not consider himself a poet, but simply a writer. "To say I'm a poet puts me in the company of versifiers, neontasters, fools, clods, and skoundrels masquerading as wise men." He has also made clear that he does not like "form" in poetry, referring to it as "a paycheck for learning to turn the same screw that has held things together.

All of the poems below are copyright Charles Bukowski!

The Man With The Beautiful Eyes



When we were kids
there was a strange house
all the shades were
always
drawn
and we never heard voices
in there
and the yard was full of
bamboo
and we liked to play in
the bamboo
pretend we were
Tarzan
( although there was no
Jane)
and there was a
fish pond
a large one
full of the
fattest goldfish
you ever saw
and they were
tame.
They came to the
surface of the water
and took pieces of
bread
from our hands.

Our parents had
told us:
" never go near that
house"
so, of course,
we went.

We wondered if anybody
lived there.
Weeks went by and we
never saw
anybody.

Then one day
we heard
a voice
from the house
" YOU GOD DAMNED
WHORE!"

It was a mans
voice.
Then the screen
door
of the house was
flung open
and the man
walked out.

He was holding a
fifth of whiskey
in his right
hand.
He was about
30.
He had a cigar
in his
mouth,
needed a
shave.
His hair was
wild and
uncombed
and he was
barefoot.
In undershirt
and pants
but his eyes
were
bright
they BLAZED
with brightness
and he said,
"hey, little
gentleman,
having a good
time, I
hope?"

Then he gave a
little laugh
and walked
back into the
house.

We left,
went back to my
parents yard
and thought
about it.

Our parents,
we decided
had wanted us
to stay away
from there
because they
never wanted us
to see a man
like
that,
a strong natural
man
with
beautiful
eyes.

Our parents
were ashamed
that they were
not
like that
man,
thats why they
wanted us to stay
away.

But
we went back
to that house
and the bamboo
and the tame
goldfish.
We went back
many times
for many
weeks
but we never
saw
or heard
the man
again.

The shades were
down
as always
and it was
quiet.

Then one day
as we came back from
school
we saw the
house.

It had burned
down,
there was nothing
left,
just a smoldering
twisted black
foundation
and we went to
the fish pond
and there was
no water
in it
and the fat
orange goldfish
were dead
there,
drying out.

We went back to
my parents yard
and talked about
it
and decided that
our parents had
burned their
house down,
had killed
them
had killed the
goldfish
because it was
all too
beautiful,
even the bamboo
forest had
burned.

They had been
afraid of
the man with the
beautiful
eyes.

And
we were afraid
than
that
all throughout our lives
things like that
would happen,
that nobody
wanted
anybody
to be
strong and
beautiful
like that,
that
others would never
allow it,
and that
many people
would have to
die.

For Jane:With All the Love I Had, Which Was Not Enough:-



I pick up the skirt,

I pick up the sparkling beads

in black,

this thing that moved once

around flesh,

and I call God a liar,

I say anything that moved

like that

or knew

my name

could never die

in the common verity of dying,

and I pick

up her lovely

dress,

all her loveliness gone,

and I speak to all the gods,

Jewish gods, Christ-gods,

chips of blinking things,

idols, pills, bread,

fathoms, risks,

knowledgeable surrender,

rats in the gravy of 2 gone quite mad

without a chance,

hummingbird knowledge, hummingbird chance,

I lean upon this,

I lean on all of this

and I know:

her dress upon my arm:

but

they will not

give her back to me.

bluebird


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?

nirvana


not much chance,

completely cut loose from

purpose,

he was a young man

riding a bus

through North Carolina

on the wat to somewhere

and it began to snow

and the bus stopped

at a little cafe

in the hills

and the passengers

entered.

he sat at the counter

with the others,

he ordered and the

food arived.

the meal was

particularly

good

and the

coffee.

the waitress was

unlike the women

he had

known.

she was unaffected,

there was a natural

humor which came

from her.

the fry cook said

crazy things.

the dishwasher.

in back,

laughed, a good

clean

pleasant

laugh.

the young man watched

the snow through the

windows.

he wanted to stay

in that cafe

forever.

the curious feeling

swam through him

that everything

was

beautiful

there,

that it would always

stay beautiful

there.

then the bus driver

told the passengers

that it was time

to board.

the young man

thought, I'll just sit

here, I'll just stay

here.

but then

he rose and followed

the others into the

bus.

he found his seat

and looked at the cafe

through the bus

window.

then the bus moved

off, down a curve,

downward, out of

the hills.

the young man

looked straight

foreward.

he heard the other

passengers

speaking

of other things,

or they were

reading

or

attempting to

sleep.

they had not

noticed

the

magic.

the young man

put his head to

one side,

closed his

eyes,

pretended to

sleep.

there was nothing

else to do-

just to listen to the

sound of the

engine,

the sound of the

tires

in the

snow.

The Aliens



you may not believe it
but there are people
who go through life with
very little
friction or
distress.
they dress well, eat
well, sleep well.
they are contented with
their family
life.
they have moments of
grief
but all in all
they are undisturbed
and often feel
very good.
and when they die
it is an easy
death, usually in their
sleep.

you may not believe
it
but such people do
exist.

but I am not one of
them.
oh no, I am not one
of them,
I am not even near
to being
one of
them

but they are
there

and I am
here.

The poetry reading


at high noon

at a small college near the beach

sober

the sweat running down my arms

a spot of sweat on the table

I flatten it with my finger

blood money blood money

my god they must think I love this like the others

but it's for bread and beer and rent

blood money

I'm tense lousy feel bad

poor people I'm failing I'm failing

a woman gets up

walks out

slams the door

a dirty poem

somebody told me not to read dirty poems

here

it's too late.

my eyes can't see some lines

I read it

out-

desperate trembling

lousy

they can't hear my voice

and I say,

I quit, that's it, I'm

finished.

and later in my room

there's scotch and beer:

the blood of a coward.

this then

will be my destiny:

scrabbling for pennies in tiny dark halls

reading poems I have long since beome tired

of.

and I used to think

that men who drove buses

or cleaned out latrines

or murdered men in alleys were

fools.

NOW



To reach here
gliding into old age
the decades gone
without ever meeting one person
truly evil
without ever meeting one person
truly exceptional
without ever meeting one person
truly good

gliding into old age

the decades gone

the mornings are the worst.