Would You Suggest Writing as a Career? (2 Viewers)

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My momma gave me my moniker...and as for crap pouring out...you have certainly done your part, Mr. Downie
 
What does he mean this isn't a porn site?
 
I thought it was a pomo porno site? Oh well.. :rolleyes:
 
I'm not really sure what it is anymore.

But I know what it's not, and that's a fan poetry site. ;)
 
Well shit fuck and damn...

[snip]


Hey Doug.

I've been to your site. I've read the poems you have posted there.
I've looked at your picture, I've read your bio, and I've looked at the nice
things people have written about you.

Now that you are here, and now that you have posted the nice tribute
poem to Charles Bukowski which you have written, feel free to look around
here. There are a lot of things to see.

Currently we have a little situation brewing in the Los Angeles part of the
world. The bungalow where Hank wrote so many treasured poems, and
stories, and prose is being scrutinized for historical classification. It's a
pretty exciting time for fans.

Also, there are a few threads where people are sharing what they are
currently reading, and listening to. It's a good thread to browse to find out a
little more personal information about the other folks on the forum.

Then there is the links the administrator has set up over there to the left.
The links like, well, like at your site, the photos, words, and so forth.

Look around, and read, and feel comfortable being here. Kind of like you ask
us to do in going to your site.

Welcome. We're glad you're here. And I hope you come back often and
participate when you can. There's a lot here for a fan of Charles Bukowski like
yourself.

- -
Okay,
Father Luke
 
I never wanted to be a writer and I wouldn't suggest it as a career...
Not when a computer can come up with this...
(This just arrived in my junk mail folder)

Father having disappeared of his own will
and snapshots
when your life flashing before you
i had told her, said
miss marple. Miss blacklock means in the house took the
matter in hand:
its not for the base hunger of unqualified knaves:
ridiculous any more.
Where was everybody when selecting,
of course, those whom he thought would be proud and disdainful,
would say, he can have his eyes on him at once. 'well?'
he said sharply.
O' a gentleman, to haud his tongue.
I canna
bide.


I don't understand it, so it must be brilliant stuff, right?
 
why am i suddenly reminded of john nash? (ala hollywood's "a beautiful mind" ...)

there's a code in there somewhere. :p
 
Troll intrusions are usually a sign that things are going smoothly on a forum. When a forum succeeds at conversation and exchanges of information, that's when a troll will appear and try to screw things up. So I guess this is a "good" sign ?
 
I don't think Doug is a troll, but his attitude is reminiscent of some of our more memorable trolls. He got his link up, that was his main concern. ;)
 
Writing as a career.Not for some Bukowski fans.I think they would be struggling with their own style and subliminally be writing Buk rip offs.
 
I have to confess I didn't even know what a troll was (in this context)...had to look it up. I can tell you that wasn't my intention, and I don't intend to post poetry continually, so don't worry, that was just a hello. Just glad to have stumbled upon this site as accessing things like Bukowski's first story, interviews, letters, etc. is a real treat, I'm a bit out of the loop here in South Africa. As for the porn site thing, its just that the need for anonymity is not real clear to me, but I'm new to these forum things so maybe I'm missing something. Thanks for your comments Father Luke. Carry on...
 
Bukowski once described himself as an ugly old troll. I have a signed book right here to that effect as it happens.
 
Not saying this is any good but ....
I'll show ya mine if you show me you'rn

"Not responding...."

She's not
Talking
After yesterday
Not
Talking

Every step
Seems
That
Little bit
Heavier
Every sigh
That
Little bit more pitiful

Her eye's won't meet
Mine
She's very
Good at
This
Very
Good

She makes
ONLY
ONE
Sandwich
ONLY
ONE cup of
Coffee
Just the
One

She goes to bed
Alone
Into
Our bed
Alone
Just a little
Earlier
Then she
Know's
I'll go

I've seen this
Before
Just
A few
Times
I'm getting a
Little
Better myself
At
This

I slip into
Bed
Beside her
That ocean of
Bed between us
I
Outstretch
My hand
And
She's
Naked

She'll
Be
Fine
She'll be
Ok...

Just needs
Rebooting!
 
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I started reading
tales of
ordinary madness
a few days
ago

I finally get
the title of this
thread

it's funny
 
Here is a poem that I tried to post in the Intro's section...

Let me know if you dig :)


-At Times-

At times, consciousness may surge forth
with little effort at all. Bringing to light, one's own inert self...
That which does not combust at the slightest aggravation, against the small
insignificant inconveniences of existence's infinite variables.
For so much of us may bow to these extremities of negativity
cursing them, digesting their meaning until all turns cold...
In the hissing winds of change.
Longing for a change.
Of pace, of scene...
However, it is not usually through forceful interaction
that one's own will, may alone beg for a success, only found
through the realization of a dream.
No, it is in the acknowledgement that our very core,
is uncertain at best... And you, or I, or anyone else for that matter,
survive off our elaborate facades through which, we parade,
as if we knew what we are capable of. Never taking heed of the situation.
For everyone is an actor, reading their developing scripts...
Thoughts.
Alone.
To one's self.
Acknowledge your dreams.
Always remembering to never bow down, alone.
To one's self.
 
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Here is a poem . . .

sign0016.gif


Been here?

C L I C K
 
I've never fully considered a career as a writer, I do however make music, which one day, I hope is heard :-)

I'd post a link in the Media Section (got a few Bukowski readings on my audio site), but I think I need to post more first :D
 
wherever the peoms go

after two
bottles of
wine i step
out back to water
the yellow grass with
my penis
stepping back inside i grab
my glass of wine with
cigarette in hand
spilling my wine all over
my mouse and pad feeling
a burning sensation on my
fuck you finger
i don't think much of
the burn because
i have wine spilt
on my battery
operated mouse,
mouse pad
and vonnegut book
i flick the burning cinder
from my big finger
unintentenailly
to inside the bottle
now here i sit
drunk
with ashes in my
wine bottle with
a bunring curse finger
rounding my mouse
off of a vonnegut
book
and reading up on
bowkowski
(i suppose someone can put this in the non-bokowski peom section and also tell me how below average i at writing)
 
remnants of long lost love linger like fingers of your crippled best friend. feeelings of anxiety.the taste of vomit in my mouth. love? fear overwhelms me. the feelings so real. her voice all the more real. anxiety. anticipation. the future... friends become deranged looking. death always chained to your ankle with that fucken ball. nauseus with feelings of love, fear, anxiety and insanity. losing a love is worse then being tortured. worse then being stoned. worse then carrying a cross to that famous resting place. but it's love and it's real and i'm fucking terrified. suicide crosses my mind after all my prime after all my glory after hearing her voice and especially after feeling the love.

this is probably the second of about 10 wiritings i've written since reading bukowski. mind you, i've never written before reading him. honestly what do you guys think? give it to me straight.
 
The book? No, it is a collection of Bukowski's early work, and depending on which era of his work you prefer, it may be a masterpiece. 1fsh2fsh is directing you to a specific poem. Bukowski was not what you'd consider real supportive of most young writers.

honestly what do you guys think? give it to me straight.
It's crap.

Let me guess, you are in your 20's, full of angst, you've suffered a bit and discovered that the world is a shithole, but only you realize it, and that tortures you.

I say that not after reading only your poems but thousands of poems written primarily by younger people. Many of us come to those same realizations in our 20's, and we all write it down the same way.

You don't have to be 50 years old to write good poetry, but the poetry of younger people often has a distinctive stink to it. Especially young people who have been infected by Bukowski (before anyone sites all the legendary teenaged geniuses, yes, I am aware of them. How many fingers does it take to count them?).

Bukowski always said that he looked at his work at some point in his 20's and said, "I'm not ready yet," and he took off to go do whatever he did (we're not real clear on what that was yet ;)). Evidence would seem to indicate that he never quit writing completely, but he did realize that something was lacking in his work. His voice. So he pretty much kept working at it until his voice arrived (which may or may not have coincided with a near-death experience). He was lucky, it arrived for him. It will not arrive for most of us.

Stop reading Bukowski and start reading other things. Go do some things you've never done. Plant some crops. Learn to carve marble. Stop writing about bottles and vomit and penis and suicide. See if you have a voice to find.

That goes for all of you punks. ;)

Copying Bukowski, or writing about Bukowski's themes is a dead end.
 
You'll just know.

honestly what do you guys think? give it to me straight.

Tend to your family.
Make sure your child's mother knows she is loved.
Keep writing, but not for anyone else but yourself.
Pay your bills. Stay out of jail when you can.
Keep your eyes and ears open, and your mouth shut.

You will one day know that you don't need to ask
anyone about your writing.

- -
Okay,
Father Luke
 
so if you (the general "you") write only for yourself and never need to ask anyone about your writing, why bother trying to publish your work? because, as much as bukowski wrote because he had to, he tried pretty hard to get his work out there as well.
 
I can only speak for myself.

A friend of mine told me that if I ever wrote for
anyone else other than me, that she wished I
would get Alzheimer's disease and have everything
I wrote for others in my head, and nothing else.

Yes. I write for me.

I was published when someone showed an interest
in what I had written.

I, uh, don't "try", as it were, jordan, to get
published. I hope you see the humor in that.

I have been solicited to publish many times.

Many times I have declined.

I trusted Bill, and his Bottle Of Smoke Press,
and I respect him.

I do have a website. I don't advertise it. I do
not call attention to it. I write there for myself.
I do not allow comments. It's not a blog.

And when I die? Everything will be suddenly gone.

* poof * Gone... back to where it came from.

So, there is the writing, then there is everything else.

Does this help? Or... ?
 
so if you (the general "you") write only for yourself and never need to ask anyone about your writing, why bother trying to publish your work? because, as much as bukowski wrote because he had to, he tried pretty hard to get his work out there as well.
For my part, I was commenting on the lack of need for validation or critique or whatever it is that drives people to ask for opinions on their writing, study writing, go to workshops to have other people who don't know how to write tell you how to improve your writing... To me, that's a big circle jerk. The only critique for some things is, "It shouldn't have been written." But no one wants to hear that.

I can train you to draw convincing caricatures of people at county fairs by teaching you a few simple shapes and cluing you in on what to exaggerate on someone. People will look at them and laugh and laugh and hand you $10, but you won't be an artist.

The cream usually rises to the top (be it through luck, or, more commonly, hard work) and the cream is not necessarily interested in anyone's opinion of what they are doing or how they should "improve" it.

Of course, that doesn't address delusion. Millions of people think they are good writers or artists or singers, and they are clearly (painfully obviously) not. But I can't fix that. This is just a forum post.

I don't even remember the point I was trying to make. I think I need to go lie down.
 
I write so people can read what I have to say. if I wrote just for myself, I'd keep a diary.
but what they have to say about what I write doesn't matter much to me anymore.
I turn 40 this year, it's too late for me to listen to every comment and try to tweak my writing to suit everyone. so while I write what I want to read, I don't want my work to exist in a vacuum, I want people to read it. and I let people know I have a site with my work, and I encourage comments. vanity? hell yes. I'm as vain as that thing that sits on top of the barn and tells you which way the wind is blowing.
yes, it's spelled v-a-n-e, but I'm so vain, my vanity encompasses all spellings.

but, bottom line, I think all talents artistic are instinctive. they can be honed, but if they ain't there from the get go, they can't be forced. no school can do anything for that.
 
another war

it was the morning time,
but nothing shined outside,
and when the boy decided to go outside to play,
no children where outside running around.

the automobiles were silent,
the dogs and birds were quieter than mice,
he felt like they were all hiding from him,
so he pretended to disappear behind a tree,
but nothing revealed itself.

then he heard a noise
about a half block down the street,
he ran anxiously towards the sound of the noise,
it was a young girl crying.

and when he arrived he saw the young girl.

"why are you crying?" he asked gaspingly.
"where is everybody - thing?"

the young girl looked up at the fearful boy
and whimpered out in a similar precarious voice.

"war."

"what?" the baffled boy said.

"WAR!" the young girl cried out.
 
.....and if I make a comment about your poem then it is so upsetting to you that I didn't get it. I am either too shallow or so distracted that your words didn't mean to me what they meant to you. Your words painted a different picture in my mind than the picture in
your mind. Oh, that's right you're not painting and I am a very poor reader.
Thank you and have a nice day I'll read it again later.
 
this then
will be my destiny:
scrabbling for pennies in tiny dark halls
reading poems I have long since become tired
of.

- from The Poetry Reading by Charles Bukowski
 
the discovery

i had a friend.
he was a bit
of a movie buff
then i infected him
with the literary bug
and he was into that -
just like me -
typing a disingenuous
self-referential poetry.

then my friend got frustrated
his work wasn't recognised
for what it was.
he discovered poetry
wasn't the hot ticket
it was assumed to be.
and my disaffection
was dragging him down.

i understood
where he was
coming from.
 
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