So, what other poets get you like Bukowski does? (1 Viewer)

Dzerzhinsk

Dzerzhinsk

I'd say, if you like Bukowski, you'd probably like Paul Celan.
ir


What say you?

A little sample for you...

Count up the almonds

Count up the almonds,
count what was bitter and kept you waking,
count me in too:

I sought your eye when you looked out and no one saw you,
I spun that secret thread
where the dew you mused on
slid down to pitchers
tended by a word that reached no one's heart.

There you first fully entered the name that is yours,
you stepped toward yourself on steady feet,
the hammers swung free in the belfry of your silence,
things overheard thrust through to you,
what's dead put its arm around you too,
and the three of you walked through the evening.

Render me bitter.
Number me among the almonds.

And this...


http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Celan
 
I read Paul Celan (not translated in English) since 25 years ago or so. A few years before I started to read Bukowski poems.

They consider Celan as one of the best poets of the hermetic poetry in the world. The opposite of Buk...
 
Dzerzhinsk said:
I'd say, if you like Bukowski, you'd probably like Paul Celan.
Click to expand...
Hmmm, I don't get your logic there. Would you like to explain why you think the these two opposites go good together?

I'd say the poems of Bertolt Brecht would interest a Buk-fan more than Celan's.
Like this one:

Contemplating Hell

Contemplating Hell, as I once heard it,
My brother Shelley found it to be a place
Much like the city of London. I,
Who do not live in London, but in Los Angeles,
Find, contemplating Hell, that it
Must be even more like Los Angeles.

Also in Hell,
I do not doubt it, there exist these opulent gardens
With flowers as large as trees, wilting, of course,
Very quickly, if they are not watered with very expensive water. And fruit markets
With great leaps of fruit, which nonetheless

Possess neither scent nor taste. And endless trains of autos,
Lighter than their own shadows, swifter than
Foolish thoughts, shimmering vehicles, in which
Rosy people, coming from nowhere, go nowhere.
And houses, designed for happiness, standing empty,
Even when inhabited.

Even the houses in Hell are not all ugly.
But concern about being thrown into the street
Consumes the inhabitants of the villas no less
Than the inhabitants of the barracks.

Bertolt Brecht​
 
Happiness
by Raymond Carver

So early it's still almost dark out.
I'm near the window with coffee,
and the usual early morning stuff
that passes for thought.

When I see the boy and his friend
walking up the road
to deliver the newspaper.

They wear caps and sweaters,
and one boy has a bag over his shoulder.
They are so happy
they aren't saying anything, these boys.

I think if they could, they would take
each other's arm.
It's early in the morning,
and they are doing this thing together.

They come on, slowly.
The sky is taking on light,
though the moon still hangs pale over the water.

Such beauty that for a minute
death and ambition, even love,
doesn't enter into this.

Happiness. It comes on
unexpectedly. And goes beyond, really,
any early morning talk about it.
 
Two guys: Raegan Butcher and Billy Childish

Butcher (http://www.raeganbutcher.com/):

LOVE IS A CLENCHED FIST

i am surrounded
by men who live
in cages

and blink in the sun
like psychotic moles

connoisseurs of hatred
disguised as racial pride

the tattooed husbands
of battered wives

who think love
is a clenched fist

ABOUT A GIRL

she had hair the color
of burning copper
ice blue eyes
and round
perfectly formed breasts
that she was quite proud of.

i remember
laying on her bed
as she stood
naked before me
turning this way and that
posing
showing off her
compact, muscular body:
tight flat stomach
strong legs
wide seductive hips
pubic patch the color of NY methadone.

she raised her arms above her head,
look at my boobs, they don't
sag at all.
do you like my boobs?

she was 19.
i was 17.

the afternoon sunlight
poured thru the window
like nylon honey.

i nodded, yes, i like your boobs. now come
here and let me kiss you.

it was perfect peaceful & pleasant
and, of course
it didn't
last.

Childish (http://www.billychildish.com/home.html):

a terrible thing
when keerah was 22
she found that she was 12 weeks pregnant
she looked at me with fear in her eyes
- what shall I do?
- She asked me
- - its up to you I said
- ile support you in whatever dessision you make

I looked out of the garden window
i thought I was being so holy
so decent
so understanding
but I didn't stop to look inside
and to treat her with enough respect
to make the demands of what I wanted

i was to bissy being (understanding?)
in truth I was too young
too drunk
and too tied into my own dream
of hell
to know my own heart

i failed myself
i failed keerah
and I faild our unborn child
who I kiss now
with this poem
 
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Erik said:
Hmmm, I don't get your logic there. Would you like to explain why you think the these two opposites go good together?
Click to expand...



Just some of the imagery, really. I'm really no expert on poetry, and I don't read a great deal of it, so I'm not in any position to compare in any great depth, but...ahh...

I guess just because I love Bukowski's poetry, and I love Celan's. Just wondered if anyone else on here did :)
 
Green Mountain

You ask me why I dwell in the green mountain;
I smile and make no reply for my heart is free of care.
As the peach-blossom flows down stream and is gone into the unknown,
I have a world apart that is not among men.

Li Po
 
Ted Hughes - Crow (all of them).... Like this...

Crow's Theology


Crow realized God loved him --

Otherwise, he would have dropped dead.

So that was proved.

Crow reclined, marvelling, on his heart-beat.



And he realized that God spoke Crow --

Just existing was His revelation.



But what

Loved the stones and spoke stone?

They seemed to exist too.

And what spoke that strange silence

After his clamour of caws faded?



And what loved the shot-pellets

That dribbled from those strung up mummifying crows?

What spoke the silence of lead?



Crow realized there were two Gods --



One of them much bigger than the other

Loving his enemies

And having all the weapons.
 
I scribbled this down long hand many years ago on yellow typing paper, even more yellow today. I still like it.

The Nailhead
by David Ignatow

"Keep the money coming in,"
hammers at me. At night
I run a hand over the job
and cannot find myself,
flush with it. I dig
at surface to clear
an area around the nailhead.
My fingernails break,
I switch hands. I keep scraping
at myself emerging bit by bit,
weary beyond rest.
I need a sedative.
After a day driving myself
and then to spend the night
yanking needs someone insane
and I stand ready for tomorrow too.
 
Billy Childish has been mentioned above but deserves mentioning again.
Then there's Dan Fante, Tony O'Neill and Karl Koweski - sunnyoutside.com for his latest - and Owen Roberts (who has posted here but haven't seen in a while) think our own Bill from BOS may be working with him on something new (?)
 
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Individual poems by various writers are of course tremendous...no body of work I've come across has sustained me like Bukowski - even wading through some of the posthumous stuff is well worth it, because the occasional gem seems to make it worth the effort. For me Robert Frost is a poet worth reading and re-reading...an astute observer who can turn a phrase memorably, and then do it within a certain structure and rhyme. Similar to Buk, Frost's writing is deceptively simple and easy.

An individual poem I carry with me always is Randall Jarrell's "Death of a Ball Turret Gunner":

"From my mother's sleep I fell into the State,
And I hunched in its belly till my wet fur froze.
Six miles from earth, loosed from its dream of life,
I woke to black flak and the nightmare fighters.
When I died they washed me out of the turret with a hose."

BD
 
ROC said:
Ted Hughes - Crow (all of them).... Like this...

Crow's Theology


Crow realized God loved him --

Otherwise, he would have dropped dead.

So that was proved.

Crow reclined, marvelling, on his heart-beat.



And he realized that God spoke Crow --

Just existing was His revelation.



But what

Loved the stones and spoke stone?

They seemed to exist too.

And what spoke that strange silence

After his clamour of caws faded?



And what loved the shot-pellets

That dribbled from those strung up mummifying crows?

What spoke the silence of lead?



Crow realized there were two Gods --



One of them much bigger than the other

Loving his enemies

And having all the weapons.
Click to expand...

I love crow
 
Bobby D said:
Individual poems by various writers are of course tremendous...no body of work I've come across has sustained me like Bukowski - even wading through some of the posthumous stuff is well worth it, because the occasional gem seems to make it worth the effort.

BD
Click to expand...

I'm not, nor was I ever, hooked into the underground poetry world but Todd Moore interests, and entertains, me.

From Instant Pussy 15

the ten dollar

bill my old
man & a wino
called irish
dove for was
sticking half
in half out
of the black
snow in front
of the hotel
my old man
grabbed it
first & rolled
thru the
slush the
wino was
yelling for
chrissake
earl while i
was busy
getting
the old man
to his feet
i sd don't
forget to
to work on
that novel
he made
a face &
spit a piece
of black
ice out of
his mouth sd
tomorrow's
for writing
today is for
getting real
fucked up

~todd moore

Lots of poems like the above. And, of course, his Dillinger volumes. I have a few. Wish he'd get collected into one large book. Maybe he doesn't wish for that.

A site for his poems and theories is
http://www.saintvituspress.com/index.html
 
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Jack Micheline

Here's what Bukowski said about Jack Micheline's stuff:

"...total feelings beating their heads on barroom floors. I can't think of anyone who has
more and who has been neglected more. Jack is the last of the holy preachers, sailing
down Broadway singing the song."
 
Erik said:
Bertolt Brecht[/COLOR][/SIZE][/FONT] [/LEFT]
Click to expand...

Haha. I never knew his first name was bertolt.

Baal is amazing but I've never read any more of him.

Some friends and I in the burgh had a reading one night, full with hearty (and unseasoned) pototoes and jug wine along with a whole assortment of other food we thought could pass as medieval.

these are the days of our lives.
 
I have never really connected with any other poet like I do Buk, except for maybe Brautigan.

Richard Brautigan from The Pill versus The Springhill Mine Disaster.

The Beautiful Poem

I go to bed in Los Angeles thinking
about you.

Pissing a few moments ago
I looked down at my penis
affectionately.

Knowing it has been inside
you twice today makes me
feel beautiful.


3 a.m.
January 15, 1967
 
Dzerzhinsk said:
Just some of the imagery, really. I'm really no expert on poetry, and I don't read a great deal of it, so I'm not in any position to compare in any great depth, but...ahh...

I guess just because I love Bukowski's poetry, and I love Celan's. Just wondered if anyone else on here did :)
Click to expand...

Yeah, I guess Buk's early, lyrical style has something in common with Celan's imagery (like this: http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/fugue-of-death/).

What do you think of Buk's shift from imagery over to a more "spoken word" type of poetry? I think his decision was right. We are simply bogged down in imagery nowadays. Bogged down. Hollywood, TV, internet. Imagery has become a cheap trick. There seems to be no escape. We need that clean line to cut thru the ox-shit.

That doesn't mean poetry with strong imagery ain't good, but the time just isn't right for it.
 
another

I joined so I could post this.

Praeder's Letters by James Baker Hall

It is book of poetry that can be read for long stretches, much like Buk. Highest recommendation.

Also, going out on more of a limb here, but The Descent of Allette by Alice Notley absolutely rules. Maybe not very similar in some ways, except there is narrative, a point of view from an individual artist, and an exquisite descriptive, moral force.
 
I couldn't give two poops to the wind about anything deemed "classic" or "great" (by some academic's criteria) but this is a good poem:

Dulce et Decorum est

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.

Gas! Gas! Quick, boys! - An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling,
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime. . .
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie; Dulce et Decorum est
Pro patria mori

--Wilfred Owen
(1917/18)
 
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there's a letter reprinted in living on luck (p. 173) about how the only book bukowski read while he went on his decade-long bender was "the prophet" by kahlil gibran. i think if you like bukowski, you pretty much have to like gibran.
 
That book is probably much rarer in pre-1960's editions when EVERYONE bought a copy. I remember my non-poetry reading, non-religious mother having a copy on her bookshelf when I was a kid. I think that it was just something that people felt that they had to have.

Bill
 
yep your right, this was just a book you had to have if you were "hip", my first wife used a bunch of passages from it when she wrote our wedding vows. now looking back I wouldn't pay a dollar for the thing.....
 
someone already mentioned gregory corso, but I'm going to have to second that...

it's gritty and dirty and bad, but with a romantic touch. I guess.

*shrug*
 
Joolz Denby, Paul Verlaine, Emily Dickinson. I also like Old Norse and Old English poetry :)

Of the Beat poets I like...no one! I don't know why. I dodn't even see Buk as a Beat poet like a lot of people do.
 
yeah, that li po poem is one of my favorites too. wasn't the name of that translator david hinton? that little book is the best i've seen so far of li po's poems (there's a bar in chinatown in sf on grant called li po. i would consider that one my "home bar". it's the only opne i've ever sent a post card to, anyway). also brautigan is great too, i agree - esp. in watermelon sugar. some others who do it for me: pablo neruda, whitman, basho, mary oliver, corrine de winter.
 
Bukowski's subtle, yet powerful. I'd have to say that Pound has something in common with Bukowski. Burroughs also.
 
Robinson Jeffers.

My favourite poet other than Hank is probably Robinson Jeffers. Especially his stuff during WWII. Like the poem "Be Angry at the Sun"

Be Angry At The Sun
by Robinson Jeffers

That public men publish falsehoods
Is nothing new. That America must accept
Like the historical republics corruption and empire
Has been known for years.

Be angry at the sun for setting
If these things anger you. Watch the wheel slope and turn,
They are all bound on the wheel, these people, those warriors.
This republic, Europe, Asia.

Observe them gesticulating,
Observe them going down. The gang serves lies, the passionate
Man plays his part; the cold passion for truth
Hunts in no pack.

You are not Catullus, you know,
To lampoon these crude sketches of Caesar. You are far
From Dante's feet, but even farther from his dirty
Political hatreds.

Let boys want pleasure, and men
Struggle for power, and women perhaps for fame,
And the servile to serve a Leader and the dupes to be duped.
Yours is not theirs.

Regards

D
 
There are the guys that Buk gave some praise... Jeffers, Purdy, etc. And he was right about them. I especially like the Jeffers stuff when he's completely given up on humanity. What's that poem where he says Churchill was as bad as Hitler. That must've given his publisher a coronary. I think they waited until Jeffers died to release that one...haha.

The Beats and the hippies never did it for me. I tried some of the guys who get thrown in with Buk (like Corso, Brautigan, Ted Berrigan). Can't do it tho. Buk, for me, was just a working drunk with woman troubles. His sensibilities came from the 1930s. Duking it out behind the bar. None of the flowerpower stuff.

Micheline was ok when he stayed focused.

I like Alan Dugan.

And Gerald Locklin. A good guy.

My fave tho is a drunk from N'awlins named Everette Maddox. Here are some samples...

Approaching the Solstice
Everette Maddox

Canal Street sizzles
like an egg on the grill:
high in the nineties.

Jesus! a man would have to be
crazy, or in his sixth
childhood, to fall in love again
in this town in the summer!

But nobody ever learns
anything -- that's what
tragedy teaches. So
my hottest wish now
rather figures: to get
out of the frying pan
and into the fire
under your cool white dress.



Sense of Decorum in Poverty
Everette Maddox

I put on a shirt
with a couple of
gone buttons and a
pair of pants my wife
hates and walk into
the living room and
sit down in a dull
chair. In this way I
acknowledge nothing's
going on. If I
wanted to really
suffer I could go
lie down in some shit,
but that transgresses
the fine line between
propriety and
masochism. If
I were any kind
of poet I'd go
stick up a Jiffy
Mart or, say the First
Bank of the Cosmic
Imagination.
Then I could buy a
red plaid jacket with
a rooster tie and
stumble out into
the clean autumn air
crowing "Guilty! Life,
I'm your beautiful
man"
 

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