You Don't Know What Love Is (an evening with Charles Bukowski) by Ramond Carver You don't know what love is Bukowski said I'm 51 years old look at me I'm in love with this young broad I got it bad but she's hung up too so it's all right man that's the way it should be I get in their blood and they can't get me out They try everything to get away from me but they all come back in the end They all came back to me except the one I planted I cried over that one but I cried easy in those days Don't let me get onto the hard stuff man I get mean then I could sit here and drink beer with you hippies all night I could drink ten quarts of this beer and nothing it's like water But let me get onto the hard stuff and I'll start throwing people out windows I'll throw anybody out the window I've done it But you don't know what love is You don't know because you've never been in love it's that simple I got this young broad see she's beautiful She calls me Bukowski Bukowski she says in this little voice and I say What But you don't know what love is I'm telling you what it is but you aren't listening There isn't one of you in this room would recognize love if it stepped up and buggered you in the ass I used to think poetry readings were a copout Look I'm 51 years old and I've been around I know they're a copout but I said to myself Bukowski starving is even more of a copout So there you are and nothing is like it should be That fellow what's his name Galway Kinnell I saw his picture in a magazine He has a handsome mug on him but he's a teacher Christ can you imagine But then you're teachers too here I am insulting you already No I haven't heard of him or him either They're all termites Maybe it's ego I don't read much anymore but these people w! ho build reputations on five or six books termites Bukowski she says Why do you listen to classical music all day Can't you hear her saying that Bukowski why do you listen to classical music all day That surprises you doesn't it You wouldn't think a crude bastard like me could listen to classical music all day Brahms Rachmaninoff Bartok Telemann Shit I couldn't write up here Too quiet up here too many trees I like the city that's the place for me I put on my classical music each morning and sit down in front of my typewriter I light a cigar and I smoke it like this see and I say Bukowski you're a lucky man Bukowski you've gone through it all and you're a lucky man and the blue smoke drifts across the table and I look out the window onto Delongpre Avenue and I see people walking up and down the sidewalk and I puff on the cigar like this and then I lay the cigar in the ashtray like this and take a deep breath and I begin to write Bukowski this is the life I say it's good to be poor it's good to have hemorrhoids it's good to be in love But you don't know what it's like You don't know what it's like to be in love If you could see her you'd know what I mean She thought I'd come up here and get laid She just knew it She told me she knew it Shit I'm 51 years old and she's 25 and we're in love and she's jealous Jesus it's beautiful she said she'd claw my eyes out if I came up here and got laid Now that's love for you What do any of you know about it Let me tell you something I've met men in jail who had more style than the people who hang around colleges and go to poetry readings They're bloodsuckers who come to see if the poet's socks are dirty or if he smells under the arms Believe me I won't disappoint em But I want you to remember this there's only one poet in this room tonight only one poet in this town tonight maybe only one real poet in this country tonight and that's me What do any of you know about life What do any of you know about anything Which of you here has been fired from a job or else has beaten up your broad or else has been beaten up by your broad I was fired from Sears and Roebuck five times They'd fire me then hire me back again I was a stockboy for them when I was 35 and then got canned for stealing cookies I know what's it like I've been there I'm 51 years old now and I'm in love This little broad she says Bukowski and I say What and she says I think you're full of shit and I say baby you understand me She's the only broad in the world man or woman I'd take that from But you don't know what love is They all came back to me in the end too every one of em came back except that one I told you about the one I planted We were together seven years We used to drink a lot I see a couple of typers in this room but I don't see any poets I'm not surprised You have to have been in love to write poetry and you don't know what it is to be in love that's your trouble Give me some of that stuff That's right no ice good That's good that's just fine So let's get this show on the road I know what I said but I'll have just one That tastes good Okay then let's go let's get this over with only afterwards don't anyone stand close to an open window
Mark, this poem is from the poetry collection "All of Us" by Ray Carver. I found it very interesting that they met, and hung out together, in the 70's. I think Ray Carver's short stories are incredible, but his poetry is also excellent.
But Bukowski was the master og this type of poem: we've got to communicate «he was a very sensitive man,» she told me, «and after he split with Andrea he kept her panties under his pillow and each night he kissed them and cried. look at you! look at that expression on your face! you don't like what I just said and do you want to know why? it's because you're afraid; it takes a man to admit his feelings. I see you watching women getting in and out of their cars, hoping their skirts will climb up so you can see their legs. you're like a schoolboy, a peep-freak! and worse than that, you just like to think about sex, you don't really want to do it, it's only work to you, you'd rather stare and imagine. you don't even like to suck my breasts! and you don't like to see a woman doing things in the bathroom! is there something wrong with bodily functions? don't you have bodily functions? Jesus, Christ, my sisters warned me about you! they told me what you were like! I didn't believe them, hell, you looked like a man! all your books, thousands of poems, and what do you know? you're afraid to look at a woman's pussy! all you can do is drink! do you think it takes any guts to drink? here I've given you 5 years of my life and what do you do?: you won't even discuss things with me! you're charming enough when we have a party, that is, if you're in the mood you can really talk your shit but look at you now, not a sound out of you, you just sit in that chair over there and pour drink after drink! well, I've had it, I'm going to get myself somebody real, somebody who can discuss things with me, somebody who can say, 'well, look Paula, I realize that we are having some problems and maybe if we talk about them we can understand each other better and make thinks work.' not you! look at you! why don't you say something? sure: DRINK IT DOWN! that's all you know how to do! tell me, what's wrong with a woman's pussy? my mother left my father because he was like you, all he did was drink and play the horses! well, he almost went crazy after she left him. he pleaded and pleaded and pleaded for her to come back, he even pretended he was dying of cancer just to get her to come see him. that didn't fool her"”she went and got herself a decent man, she's with him now, you've met him:Lance. but no, you don't like Lance, do you? he wears a necktie and he's into real estate. . . well, he doesn't like you either. but mother loves him. and what do you know about love? it's a dirty word to you! love. you don't even like! you don't like your country, you don't like movies, you don't like to dance, you don't like to drive on freeways, you don't like children, you don't look at people, all you do is sit in a chair and drink and figure systems to beat the horses and if there's anything duller and dumber than horses, you let me know, you just tell me! all you know how to do is wake up sick each morning, you can't get out of bed until noon; you drink whiskey, you drink scotch, you drink beer, you drink wine, you drink vodka, you drink gin, and what does it mean? your health gets worse and worse, your left thumb is dead, your liver is shot, you have high blood pressure, hemorrhoids, ulcers, and Christ knows what else, and when I try to talk to you, you can't take it and you run to your place and take the phone off the hook and put on your symphony records and drink yourself to sleep, and then you wake up sick at noon and phone and say that you're dying and that you're sorry and that you want to see me, and then I come over and you're so contrite you're not even human"” oh, you can be charming when you're sick and in trouble, you can be humorous, you can make me laugh, you win me back again and again. . . but look at you now! all you want is one more drink and then one more drink and you won't talk to me, you just keep lighting cigarettes and looking around the room. . . don't you want to work at making our relationship better? tell me, why are you afraid of a woman's pussy?» --- I compared these poems once, in something I wrote (academic). Carver's is from 83, Buk's from 81. Go figure. Carver commented it thus: In Fires, I even dedicated a poem to him. It's titled «You Don't Know What Love Is.» It's kind of the story of an evening that he spent at my house, and many lines are nothing more than phrases taken directly from what he said [...] Well, Bukowski is a really strange guy; it's almost impossible to agree with him. I was in my early twenties and I told him that I liked his poems. He answered that I must have a terrible taste. Buk said the following: Man, that night he wrote about me I was drunk, naturally, and screaming at all those professors and college kids "” 'babies, I look around the room and I see plenty of typers but I see no writers for you guys don't know what love is'"” oh boy, I was singing that night and Carver caught that. I think one big difference is that Buk uses punctuation marks etc. very actively, while Carver doesn't. This gives Buk's piece more flow and rhythm than Carver's. Carver is a more "readerly" kind of writer. Buk's piece is more "talkable" spoken word or some such... yup.
the carver thing is interesting. can't recall first seeing it? didn't think it to be flattering. sort of a polaroid, but in a way that says, this is what i see, but don't turn the camera back at me. which is still far more honest than most of carver's stature in literature said. or should this be another bukowski myth? that 'establishment' writers don't give him due? that is, even the new yorker review last year (posted hereabouts) maintained the picture of bukowski as a sort rod mckuen for the drinking set. maybe buk will transcend this one day to a level of maybe omar khayyam. who academics still do not much like but they understand he still captures people's hearts after 1000 years.
Great read! So often when I mention Bukowski others mention Carver... what did they make of each other? I've not read anything by Carver. Nothing memorable... I hear he is good.
Let me toss my two cents' worth in ... I first read this in a really, really hilarious parody poetry collection called The Brand-X Anthology of Poetry. I would recommend it to anyone. My first edition was published by Apple-Wood Books in 1981 and several booksellers still have it on Amazon. The Carver parody of Bukowski, which literally had me crying with laughter when I first read it, is on page 304.
Interesting. Carver -- who I'm every bit as fond of as Bukowski, the Tess Gallagher/Gordon Lish controversy notwithstanding -- appears to be treating Bukowski here with equal measures of kindness and contempt. Also, the piece is just downright hilarious, as Harry notes, somewhat reminiscent of the annual Bad Hemingway contest.
I saw evidence of Olaf at Literary Mary when I was checking that out. He's on the forum so vodka and a few others would know. Unless they killed him. He is a real life postman, you know.
olaf is indeed, alive and kicking and participating pretty regularly on LiteraryMary. y'all are more than welcome to join if you want to use the private message feature there. good god, i'm pimping out olaf.
I was reading Bukowski's Reach for the Sun this morning and coincidentally came across his judgment of Carver: "I never got much out of Carver and still can't quite see what the fuss is all about."
http://spinelessandstapled.blogspot.nl/2013/04/raymond-carver-and-charles-bukowski.html "Bukowski, drinking everything in sight, muttered, bragged, cursed, and, getting drunker by the minute, grabbed the girls and mashed his whiskery ace against theirs, or shot his hand to the crotch of their jeans or down their blouses. . . girls screamed and ran from the house. . . more cerebral students sat back and stared straing ahead, probably stoned. . . Ray started drinking."
